


Take Two

by DreamerWisherLiar



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Light BDSM, Mutual Pining, Post-Divorce, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 21:16:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16961622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamerWisherLiar/pseuds/DreamerWisherLiar
Summary: Athos has taken on worse films in his career, he must have, but he can't think of any offhand. If it weren't for his friends, he'd never have signed up. The director before him was fired, they're weeks behind schedule, the star actor is a nightmare, the atmosphere on set is terrible, and worst of all, the new lead actress is his ex-wife. Who he's still madly in love with.If nothing else, he supposes, at least it will definitely be a job to remember.





	1. New Hire

“Another drink?” d’Artagnan asks for politeness’s sake, although he knows it’s the one day of the week where Athos always replies to that question in the negative.

Athos shakes his head, as expected. “I’m going to head off, let you get home to Constance. You know she won’t appreciate you being back in town for just one night and spending it all with me.” It’s a better excuse than he normally has, and yet somehow still less convincing, and he’s running late. He’s been doing a very good job not looking at his watch tonight, but on Thursdays he always knows the time somehow. To the minute, if not to the second.

“She wouldn’t mind,” d’Artagnan says earnestly. As always, Athos’s former assistant manages to be almost painfully genuine, a rare thing in the film business. He gives Athos a mischievous smile. “Besides anything else, it’s my job.”

Athos shrugs. “I already agreed. Honestly, the more you tell me about this movie, the more likely you are to turn my ‘yes’ into a ‘no’. And you know Thursdays are my introverted, people-free nights. If I’m about to spend weeks dealing with the mess you described, I need this. Let me have a night alone with a good book.”

“Well, enjoy your book, then,” d’Artagnan says, only the slightest edge of sarcasm in his voice. His smile removes any sting from it.

“Will do,” Athos says, turning to leave.

All his friends suspect he doesn’t spend every Thursday night reading, he knows. It’s not exactly the best excuse in the world. Sure, he loves novels. You can’t be a director or a screenwriter and not like stories, and he’s lucky enough to be friends with a publisher named Ninon, who gets him the newest books she thinks he’ll like from the moment they’re out or even before. Mysteries are his favourite. But even Athos doesn’t love books enough to choose them over bars, especially with this nightmare of a movie awaiting his attention tomorrow. That’s why d’Artagnan is drinking right now, dreading returning to the set, and why him pretending he wants to finish the book he’s reading is even less convincing than normal.

He probably wouldn’t have agreed to join such a troubled production, but Treville asked. In fact, he didn’t just ask, he sent d’Artagnan to ask. Athos is the one who recommended him to Treville as an assistant in the first place, after d’Artagnan had been acting as his own unpaid assistant to learn some of the basics of the movie business. Athos had never actually asked for an assistant, but d’Artagnan had just sort of turned up and not left, and to Athos’s surprise he quickly proved not only to be an excellent assistant on the job but an incredibly loyal and trustworthy friend off it.

So between d’Artagnan and Treville, the decision was made. He could hardly turn down his friends. It helps that Porthos and Aramis are also working on this movie, and while directors and stunt coordinators don’t have much to do with each other for the most part, it will give them plenty of time off set to catch up and hang out, much more time than they have on the rare occasions they’re all in town. He’s looking forward to that. It’s the rest of the job that sounds like a nightmare. Three weeks into shooting and they’ve still apparently shot absolutely nothing usable thanks to frequent actor meltdowns, local disasters, and script rewrites. Hopefully, Athos will be able to help with that. Even more hopefully, he’ll be able to do it while restraining the desire to knock people’s heads together until they act sensibly.

At least the location’s close enough to a town that they’ve booked out hotels, instead of having to set up tents and trailers for everyone. Years of this job have inured him to all but the worst accommodation on location, but there’s no denying it’s pleasant to sleep under a real roof. Although still not as pleasant as sleeping under his own roof, of course. And it’s much too far to drive home once a week like he does on nearer shoots.

D’Artagnan’s brief time as Athos’s assistant means that he’s even more aware than the others of just how unwavering Athos’s determination to spend every Thursday at home is – when he’s actually within driving distance of his home, that is. He’s been known to drive for hours each way just to spend Thursdays at his apartment. Thursdays are sacrosanct to him. It’s the one night of the week he doesn’t even do any writing. He tells everyone that it’s his mental health night, to be spent with a glass of wine and whatever book Ninon’s recommended.

It’s a cover, and all of his friends know it’s a cover, including d’Artagnan. They just think it’s a cover for drinking alone. He can’t decide if that’s more or less pathetic than his real plans.

The first time he blurted out the reading excuse on a Thursday, it was just because Ninon had sent a book that day, so it was the first thing that came to mind. It has no relation to what he actually does on Thursdays nights, which is his ex-wife. As many times as he can, in as many ways as he can. He normally spends the whole of Wednesday and Thursday in an anticipatory daze, fevered mind conjuring up just how they’ll fill the few brief hours they spend together.

If he thinks about it, of course, he can make connections between the bad excuse and the self-destructive reality. But then, as obsessive as he is, all paths lead to the same place in his mind. To Anne. The books he likes are a comparatively easy subject to twist back to thoughts of her.

Back when they were married, she used to filch every new book before he could get to the end, especially mysteries, then make a guess what the ending was when she reached the spot he was up to. She was nearly always right, too. It drove him nuts, both the accuracy and the stealing. Well, technically it wasn’t even stealing, since back then Ninon sent the books to her. They’d been friends (or at least frenemies) for years before Anne met Athos – but somehow, in the strange social negotiations that occur during a divorce, he’d ended up with Ninon and she’d ended up having to just buy her books like a regular person. Not that Anne de Breuil – or Milady de Winter, to use her professional name – has ever been exactly like a regular person.

It’s ten to seven. She turns up at seven on the dot, every week that they’re both in town. He’s been late home twice, unavoidably detained for one reason or another. The first time he was only ten minutes late, and found she’d started without him. That had been a good night. The second time he was two hours late, and found she’d started and finished without him quite a few times and was feeling lazy and satiated enough to spend another hour tormenting him with hot flesh and half-hearted touches. She’d eventually left him agonisingly unsatisfied, but with the advice to be more punctual in future, because if she had to pleasure herself without assistance he could damn well do the same. That had not been such a good night.

Athos wonders if they’re very good at being divorced, or very bad.

X_X_X_X_X

Typically, Anne doesn’t bother to knock. She had to the first time she turned up – it was about six months after the divorce, and she certainly didn’t have a key to their place anymore, since divorce lawyers generally advise against that kind of thing.

So she knocked and he opened the door and she pushed her way in. He was ready for a shouting match, but instead she simply let the trenchcoat she was wearing drop to the ground, revealing that apart from her heels, it was in fact the only thing she had on. At the sight of her naked body every bit of blood in Athos’s brain had fled south and he had her up against the door before she could say a word. They’d fucked roughly, loudly enough that if he’d had the ability to form coherent thoughts he would have expected someone else in the complex to complain.

The second time they made it five feet from the door before landing on the ground, and she’d ridden him as he thrust up helplessly into her, trying to push himself deeper inside her the way he can never stop doing. On the third week, he left a key out and it vanished with her when she put on her clothes and left. On the tenth week, they finally made it all the way to the bedroom.

They’re now on the one-hundred-and-fifty-third week, and he no longer expects her to suddenly stop showing up. He just accepts that every single week that neither of them is on location, she’ll turn up at seven exactly and they’ll screw each other’s brains out. Originally, she got up and left on shaking legs the moment they finished fucking each other blind against whatever the nearest flat surface was, but the time gradually lengthened as they started moving to the bed occasionally, then even more when they began to aim for more thorough, drawn-out enjoyment of each other’s bodies. Eventually they reached an equilibrium at about the sixtieth week – she stays two and a half hours or three rounds, whichever is longer, unless she has plans elsewhere and has to cut out early. They’ve never discussed that, and it’s not an official rule, it’s just based on his observations.

Today as she breezes in he’s on the couch, a drink in his hand, idly contemplating how he should sort his life out and move on and be less pathetic, without really intending to do any of those things. She’s pulling off her clothes even as she walks – leggings and a tank top, she must have just come from a workout session – and he puts the drink down to watch appreciatively as more bare skin appears.

“I need a shower,” she says bluntly, yanking off her top. She’s glowing with perspiration, her face still pink. The rest of her skin is rosy and flushed with exercise as well. He feels his mouth go dry as he watches all the curves, arches, and long graceful lines of her appear. He gets to taste all that soft perfect skin every single week, but it never gets old. Thursdays aren’t just his favourite day of the week, sometimes they seem like the only thing that prevents him from crashing into alcoholism entirely. After all, if he did, she might stop turning up. His work and friends are another factor in his mental health, of course, but it’s hard to even remember their existence when she starts shedding clothes.

She stops at the door to the bathroom, arches her eyebrows at him. As always, she manages to make waspishness seem sexy. “Well? Why are you still dressed? I don’t have all night. Or do you expect me to wash without anyone to scrub my back?”

He follows her, managing to grab her and pin her against the bathroom wall before she can get in the shower, going in for a deep kiss that leaves her gasping against him. He delves into her mouth, exploring, taking every sweet little moan she makes, enjoying the feeling of her sweat-slick body moving against him. Kissing away her tension and his own. He lets his hand travel down to the soft curls between her legs, winding his fingers in them and twisting with a steady pressure, a sensation he knows she enjoys.

“Conserving water?” he murmurs against her lips, then moves his mouth to her neck, tasting the salty tang of her sweat. Her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt and she presses as close as she can while he moves against her, and he knows she’s revelling in the texture of the fabric rubbing against her nakedness, the drag and scrape of it against sensitive skin, nearly as much as she’s enjoying the feel of his hot mouth on her. Anne likes clothes, whether hers or his, likes all the different textures and sensations against her overheated body. Judging by the meaningful way she tugs at the shirt, though, right now she’d still prefer less of it.

“Multitasking,” she replies eventually, voice a little rough. She pulls away from him, slightly more flushed than before, and gives him that slow, sultry smile that immediately makes him want to take her mouth again, but she’s already moving away. She reaches out to turn the shower on and looks around, shaking her head as if to clear it a bit. “God, this is such a ‘boy’ bathroom. No, you know what, that’s sexist. It’s not a male thing. This is just a ‘you’ bathroom.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That most people at least own hair care products or a scrubber,” she says. “You own soap, Athos. That’s it. Which appears to actually be intended as handwash. You should ask Aramis for some bathroom supplies, because if I had to guess, I’d say he has enough to fill this bathroom three times over.”

This is more conversation than they’ve had in months – well, more real conversation. Mostly, they do a really good job at pretending they don’t know anything about the other person apart from the best ways to bring each other off. Back at the beginning, she used to make sly little comments about their shared past all the time, digging them into his skin seemingly just to watch him flinch, but he never responded and eventually she got bored and stopped. She doesn’t bother to refer to their marriage anymore.

She certainly never refers to when she lived here. He can remember this bathroom covered in lots of different things, bath bombs, moisturisers, conditioners, face masks, all the kind of things you’d expect somebody who loves luxury and makes a living off their face and body to own. Not that Anne’s the kind of actress who gets parts solely on appearance – she’s incredibly skilled, in fact, which he got to experience firsthand when they met, to his detriment – but there’s no denying that Hollywood tends to consider attractiveness just as necessary as talent, especially when it comes to women.

She moves under the spray and he shucks his clothes and joins her. She’s slippery as he reaches for her, and he grabs the liquid soap she mocked to make her more slippery still – and wash her, of course. He decides her breasts are especially in need of cleaning and devotes some time to making sure they are, savouring the feel of her warm, smooth skin under his hands, slick from the water and the soap. With his front pressed to her back, he traces patterns, feels the weight of them, the roundness, squeezes them, caresses them. She moans against him again, leaning back into him and abandoning herself to his touch.

“I think you’re missing parts,” she gasps after a while.

“Am I?” He’d be happy to keep playing with her soapy tits forever, absorbed by the heaviness of them, the tautness of her nipples. But he’s also happy to be persuaded otherwise. In this particular dance, there’s not really any such thing as a wrong step – at least not when it’s the two of them together, anyway.

“Lower,” she says, trying to pull his arms.

“Oh, here?” he says, moving his fingers to her abdomen, massaging the muscles there. He thinks he can feel the desperate heat of her even from there. He’s more than ready to push into her by now – has been since she first started stripping, if he’s honest – but it’s more enjoyable to hold off and focus on her for a while. He lets his head drop down, nosing aside the wet mass her messy ponytail has turned into to lick at the dampness of her neck, making her shiver and push back against him more.

“You know where,” she growls, spreading her legs wider, “Come _on_ , Athos.”

“I’m easily confused,” he offers innocently, dropping his hands to trace up and down her thighs, feeling the tense muscles in them, framing the place where she wants to be touched without ever touching her there. The muscles under his hands jump. He can smell her need even through the steam and soap. “Maybe if you tell me.”

She lets out another needy moan, and manages to offer, “How about if I show you?”

“Actors,” he says, privately amazed he’s still able to manage full sentences with the wet curves of her ass pushing against him like that. “Always so expressive. But I’m not an actor. I like words. Use them.”

“Bastard,” she says breathlessly, but he can tell she’s not really annoyed, not even slightly. The word nearly comes out fond, in fact. He lets his fingers graze over her inner thigh and she hisses in a breath and says shakily, “I want your fingers inside me.”

“How many and where? Set the scene,” he says a little mockingly, because he’s a dickhead and he loves these little moments far too much. He lets his fingers go closer, right to the edge of her.

“Rub my clit,” she says, the shakiness in her voice intensifying. It’s not the level of detail he asked for, but they both know she’ll go there soon enough. Her eyes slide closed and her breath leaves in a long sigh as he moves his hand to her.

He obeys, lazily rubbing at her, circling her clit with torturous slowness. The steam makes it hard to see, but he knows her body better than he knows his own, has licked every inch of it, run his fingers along every muscle and seam and smooth perfect curve of it. He’s buried himself inside her body so many times that he almost feels more naked without her clenched around him in some way. They’re joined, even when they’re not.

“Put one finger inside me. Oh, God, yes, like that, move your thumb to my clit, put your thumb – there, yeah, oh my _God_. And then you can put another in me. Like that. Ohhhh. Don’t stop. That feels so _good_ , Athos, _fuck_.”

He curves the two fingers so they hit right where she wants them to and she jolts against him, begging him not to stop again. And then it’s a simple matter to slide his fingers inside her again and again, thumb working her clit firmly, other hand holding her steady as he makes her lose her mind. Even with the steam, he gets a great view over her shoulder as she rocks against his fingers, her breasts bobbing in time with the jolting, obscene little movements of him invading her. He’s a little regretful the shower’s washing away the taste of her before he can devour it, and even more regretful he’s not properly buried inside her yet, but they’ve got time yet tonight, and the feel of her contracting around his twisting, thrusting fingers is pretty amazing itself.

She babbles on as he finger-fucks her, using every word he can wring out of her with his clever fingers playing inside her and his tongue laving at the hollow of her neck, the kind of filth spilling out of her mouth that a shower just can’t wash away. He loves every moment, but none so much as when her voice breaks off into a rising, sobbing whine and she leans all her weight against him, body shuddering as he drives her slowly and methodically over the edge, keeping her there as long as possible. He can feel every tense and release of her body, every shake of it, and all of a sudden he’s so desperate to be inside her that he can barely work the taps and get them out of there. They could continue in here, but the water’s starting to cool, and the floor of the shower is also extremely slippery.

He half-carries her to his bed as she recovers, not bothering to dry either one of them, and drops her down on it. She squirms over onto her back, letting her thighs fall open wide as she does so just to drive him even crazier, and shoots him a look that straddles the line between flirtatious and just hungry. He scrabbles for a condom from his bedside drawer and sorts that out with the quickness of long practice, then pushes hard into her over-sensitised body, loving the hot, wet clench of her cunt around him, loving the way she digs her heels and fingers hard against his back to force him even further inside her, loving the soaked ponytail he twists around his hand to use as leverage as he fucks deep into her, loving the little broken moans she makes as he takes her apart again and goes with her this time.

Mostly he just loves her. It’s a problem, but it’s been one for years now, so it’s probably too late to fix it.

X_X_X_X_X

“Next week,” he murmurs a couple of hours later, already feeling sleep drag at him despite how damp the bed is from earlier. It’s not particularly late, but he’s been pretty active, so he’s fine with the idea of passing out now. It’s not like he gets much sleep the rest of the week, unless you count whiskey-induced unconsciousness.

She’s in the middle of getting dressed, but even though his eyes are closed he knows she’s listening just by the way her breathing shifts. They both do that – it’s like they have automatic, built-in reactions to every single thing the other one does or says, moving in sync even when they’re across the room from each other, pausing a moment before the other begins to speak like they’re somehow passing a baton blindfolded, unconsciously adjusting their stance and breathing and expression in response to the minutest change in the other’s. Divorce can’t destroy reflexes that are that bone-deep. 

“Next week?” she echoes.

“Don’t come by. I’ll be out of town for six weeks, maybe more, working on this stupid movie. I’ll text you when I know my return date.” Six weeks at least to film the thing. The details of post production haven’t been fixed yet, so God knows how long that will take, but it will be at the local studio so he’ll be able to keep most of his Thursdays free at least. He’s already sure they’ll want him to attend the press junket and a few other interviews in a few months, but overall that shouldn’t take long – this movie’s reasonably well funded, but it’s not _that_ big. So overall, it’s just six weeks away from Anne, which is bad enough.

“Athos?” she says, and there’s something hesitant in her voice.

He blinks his eyes open, alerted by this. They don’t normally say real goodbyes, unless it’s to let the other one know that next week doesn’t work for some reason. Normally, she just pulls on her clothes, grabs whatever purse or bag she brought, and is gone before he can really register that she hasn’t gotten up just to get a drink or grab a snack or something. She certainly never says anything that makes her hesitate.

She’s pulling on the sweaty clothes she originally wore. As he watches, she twists to look at him, trying to use her fingers to comb the knots out of her hair, which has dried into a huge, tangled mess despite the ponytail, curly and wild around her head. She gives up with a wince, clearly deciding to sort it out later. “This ‘stupid’ movie. It’s ‘Knighthood’, isn’t it? You’ve been called in to help with the dialogue changes and the directing.”

“Yes,” he says, starting to wake up even more from her voice.

“One of the reasons it’s such a disaster is Anne Hapsburg just broke her contract,” Anne says, words speeding up a little like she wants to get the explanation over with. “Richelieu asked me to take her place, and you know I owe him. The money’s good, and even though the production’s a mess, it sounds like it’ll be a decent movie if they can get everything ironed out.”

She pauses. He doesn’t say anything. Normally directors have a lot of say in casting, but because he’s coming to this film part-way through, most of that is already settled. He’ll be able to make minor cast and crew changes, of course, just like he’ll be able to make minor tweaks to the plot and dialogue, but anything major will spin this out for months more.

“Would you like me to turn it down?”

The thought of over a month without their weekly fuck had depressed him. Unfortunately, six weeks where he sees her every day is ten times worse. He and Anne do well when they don’t speak except to talk dirty, and don’t touch except to bring each other off – that’s the kind of lines they can write, the kind of scenes they can act. The rest… not so much. And if he’s helping direct her, he’ll have to talk to her all the time, work with her, discuss dialogue with her, character motivation…

“You’re free to do what you want,” he says gruffly, because he’s not going to be the asshole ex who controls her career, not in any way. They’re divorced, but they’re supposed to be amicably divorced, even if in fact the divorce felt more like a bereavement than like the polite separation they pretended it was. “It doesn’t matter to me either way.”

She looks at him, and something hardens in her eyes. He’s said the wrong thing, though he has no clue what it was that made it wrong. Anne’s a character writer’s class all on her own, but he’s never quite passed it. Maybe she wants him to lie and say he’s thrilled with the thought of spending six weeks or more in agonisingly close quarters with the woman who lied to him, the woman who left him, the woman he still loves. Maybe she wants him to be honest and say it sounds like torture. It’s impossible to tell. He wonders if it’s possible to know someone completely but understand them not at all.

“All right,” she says coolly. “I suppose I’ll see you next week after all, then. Hopefully they’ll put us up in the same hotel and make it easy.”

He lays there and stares at the ceiling for a long time after she’s gone, the afterglow seeping away into cold realisation. Anne, every day for more than a month. Twenty times as much interaction as they’ve had in the past few years, and most of it will be clothed, and they’ll be expected to communicate like professionals and be courteous and just a bit distant from each other, like exes are supposed to be.

“Oh, fuck,” he says to himself.


	2. Week 1

Athos has been on plenty of sets in his life. In fact, he was basically raised on them – his family might not be Hollywood royalty like the de Bourbons, but they’re not far behind. Large parts of his childhood were spent running around sets like these. The de la Feres have been involved in some way or another with a lot of the high-budget movies made in the last century, whether through helping fund them, producing them, promoting them, acting in them, writing them or directing them. He’s just continuing the family tradition. Athos’s upbringing means that he knows everyone who’s anyone in the film business, and if you want to be someone too, getting on his good side can be a fast ticket there. Connections are what it’s all about. Just look at d’Artagnan, currently employed by one of the best producers in the business thanks to knowing Athos. Although d’Artagnan, at least, was always honest about what he wanted: not a leg up, not connections, not a recommendation, just to learn from someone at the core of this business. He never wanted to use Athos, he wanted Athos to share this complicated, fascinating and crazy world with him, and he was truthful about that from the start, and that’s why Athos hired him despite his general distaste at the idea of having an assistant – which in Hollywood tends to instead mean lackey.

Anyway, having been on so many sets, he can immediately recognise the atmosphere this one has, and it’s not good. Every single person looks on edge, grumpy, and exhausted. There’s no chatter, no laughter, no earnest discussions about technical details – basically, no sign that anyone actually wants to be there. And now he and his ex-wife are joining them – well, _that_ can only help matters.

“I’m sorry to call you in at this stage.” Treville frowns. “It’s a mess, an absolute shambles.”

It _is_ a bit like inviting someone to take a berth on the Titanic, but Athos just hums noncommittally. Sometimes the worst films he’s been called to work on have turned out the best, and there’s almost more satisfaction in that than there is when everything goes perfectly right from the start. Anne used to say it was his inner masochist coming out to play whenever he mentioned that, and offer her assistance in using up those urges elsewhere. He feels a flush creep up his neck just at the memories.

As if he’s heard the turn Athos’s thoughts have taken, Treville clears his throat. “Listen, I didn’t know this until today, and I’m very sorry for springing this on you – in fact, if you want to cancel, there’ll be no hard feelings, I’ll rip up the contract right away -”

“You hired Anne,” Athos finishes for him. “My ex-wife Anne, that is, not Anne Hapsburg. Yes, she told me.”

“I didn’t hire her,” Treville scowls. “Richelieu did. Honestly, that man. He offered her the part without even checking with me, and then when I complained, all he would say is that she’s the best for the job.”

“She probably is.” Anne’s career has taken off over the past few years – when he first met her, she was a talented C-lister at best, primarily known for dying dramatically in a few low-budget movies and being a popular but scarce recurring character in a TV show. Now, she’s famous enough it’s a miracle she can avoid being spotted on her weekly trips to his apartment, and tabloids spend far too much time guessing who she’s dating and what she’ll do next. They were lucky she owes Richelieu enough favours to sign on to this mess – not many actresses could replace Anne Hapsburg without getting judged unfavourably just on that basis.

“No doubt,” Treville says shortly, “But it was still a reckless thing to do. The last thing we need is more heated tempers on this production. Just because Armand only thinks of the finished product, not the process…”

Athos is almost amused. He’s heard this rant regularly for as long as he’s known Treville, which is as long as he can remember, though they’ve only been really close since they started working together fairly regularly. The amazing thing is not that the partnership of Jean Treville and Armand Richelieu has led to seventeen of the fifty highest-rated movies of the past two and a half decades, but that they’ve managed to do so while seemingly disagreeing on every single major decision about every movie they make. Half the people who meet them think they’re sworn enemies and the other half assume they’re a couple. Given how close-mouthed the two of them are about their personal lives, for all Athos knows, they could be.

Despite all the arguments, though, they do work well together. Richelieu is a genius at getting his hands on funding and making the kinds of ruthless judgement calls required to stay within budget and on schedule, and Treville is wonderful at selecting talent and has the kind of fatherly presence and gentle authority that keeps a movie from falling apart. Nearly all the big production companies have them on speed dial, and when they’re not working for them, they pick passion projects of their own and get them made.

“You won’t have any problems from Anne and I,” Athos assures him. “We’re both adults.”

“I’m glad someone is,” Treville grumbles, blowing out a breath slowly. “Speaking of which, come and meet our leading man.”

“That bad?”

“Oh, he’s a good man, deep down, and a good actor as well,” Treville says generously, leading him across this part of the set. “He’s just… temperamental.”

Richelieu catches the last of this and looks up from some papers. He wears his usual expression of mild irritation, like you’re somehow wasting his time purely by existing. “Louis?”

“Who else,” Treville says dryly.

“I’m sure he has hidden depths, and with luck they may even contain something worth our time,” Richelieu says, sounding coldly amused. “He just needs managing. I think Milady can provide some assistance with that, in fact.”

Anne had the stage name Milady de Winter before they met, and she’s kept it since, but it’s never stopped sounding strange to Athos. Oh, actresses have adopted much weirder names before, but the truth is she’ll always be Anne to him, whatever the rest of the world calls her. That’s how she introduced herself to him that first night.

That memory feels a bit like a blow, now, but it’s nothing compared to the sight of her a couple of hundred feet away, being helpfully shown around the place by d’Artagnan. She catches sight of him at the same moment he sees her and she wrinkles her nose slightly – he doesn’t need to go closer to know it’s her way of expressing her concern about the general mood of the cast and crew, not him personally. He inclines his head in agreement, but so very slightly that even the two men standing right next to him don’t notice. He’s sure she does, though.

Exes should not share a secret language of gestures and minor facial movements, any more than they should have private jokes, or own keys to each other’s places, or put aside one night every week to fuck each other blind. But even while it makes his heart twist in his chest to know her thoughts just from a tiny movement, he still can’t help smiling at her expression.

“Louis, there you are,” Treville says. “Come meet our new principal director and screenwriter, Athos.”

Athos shakes the younger man’s hand. He’s never met Louis de Bourbon before, but he’s very recognisable, having been in quite a few movies. He’d spent a while in television before then, and then even a year on stage, but now he seems to only want to do movies. He’s a good performer overall, from the little Athos has seen of his work – a little too showy and overdramatic for Athos’s taste, and his performances can vary wildly in quality, but he’s gained acclaim for some of the things he’s been in. Nothing to his father, of course – Henri de Bourbon had truly been one of the greats, and there’s no doubt his name is what got Louis’s career going – but acceptable enough. Anne’s good enough that she could play opposite a wall and still carry the film, in Athos’s biased opinion, so Louis will do.

“A new one?” Louis looks him up and down, lip curled in a very sulky expression that makes him look much younger than he is. “I hope he’s better than the last one. I thought Rochefort was a genius at first, but it turns out he was simply rubbish. Trying to tell me my character couldn’t even manage to fight off a single group of bandits -” Athos tunes out again.

‘Knighthood’ might not be a very deep or well written story, but it does have the trappings to be an enjoyable film at least – a simple plot that’s unlikely to leave people confused, fights that Aramis and Porthos can make very visually appealing, dialogue and characters that are cliched but generally harmless, and a romance running down the core of it that’s not offensively shallow or excessively twee. It’s likely to appeal to most demographics. It may offend some people’s intelligence, but well, movies have done worse.

“And that flood,” Louis is still talking when Athos tunes back in, and is still pouting and self-righteous, so not much has changed. “The place was a _swamp_ , and he did nothing to prevent it.”

“It was a dam break,” Treville says patiently, although from what Athos has heard he wasn’t a fan of Rochefort either, and in fact was thrilled to see the back of him and replace him with Athos. “It wasn’t something anyone could have predicted.” 

“A competent director would have kept on top of that kind of thing. My shoes were wrecked – several pairs of them, even. Why is the country always so very _rural_?”

“I’ll do my best make sure no more dams break,” Athos says with a dryness that goes entirely over Louis de Bourbon’s head. “In fact, I think I can guarantee they won’t.”

It’s an easy promise to make, since that was the only one around. Still, Louis lights up, expression immediately changing to a wide, toothy grin. “Wonderful. That’s all I ask, well, that and that you fix this silly storyline that makes my character look so weak. He’s a brave and stoic leader, not some sort of whiny coward. Are you at the same hotel as the rest of us – er, was it Athos?”

“The same one as the principal cast, yes,” Athos says. He wouldn’t have minded being put up in one of the other hotels with the rest of the crew, like Aramis and Porthos, but he’s been given the room the previous director occupied. It’s almost excessively plush. He imagines Anne was given Anne’s Hapsburg’s abandoned rooms in the same hotel, so at least she’ll get her wish of being within easy distance of him. 

Even thinking about having her under the same roof as him every night makes his skin prickle and flush in anticipation, and he can’t stop himself from wondering briefly and guiltily if she’ll consider relaxing her ‘once a week’ rule – just for the duration of the film, of course. Although his friends will probably notice if he starts spending every minute he isn’t on set holed up in his room waiting with bated breath for his ex-wife to show up and fuck him six ways to Sunday.

“And here is Milady de Winter, who is taking over the role of Clarice,” Treville says as Anne and d’Artagnan join them. “Milady, this is Louis de Bourbon, as I’m sure you know.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Anne gives her brightest, most apparently genuine smile. “I really mean that, I’ve always wanted to meet you face to face. I’m a huge fan of your work. You were just wonderful in ‘The Last Hunt’.”

“That’s my favourite thing I’ve worked on, Milady!” Louis gives an equally bright but probably much more genuine smile.

Athos is willing to bet Anne knew that when she complimented it. She always does her homework. She told him once that if growing up in the foster system teaches you anything, it’s that you need to learn everything you can about whatever situation you’re walking into, so you know the location of every land-mine. She couldn’t do that back then, but she can do it now. Even with d’Artagnan filling him in on everything, Athos suspects he doesn’t know half as much as she does about all the tensions and complicated relationships on set. And by tomorrow, she’ll know ten times as much as he does. Anne has an instinct for these things.

Richelieu waves Treville over, wanting to discuss something, and Treville mutters an apology and leaves them to it. Apparently he’s decided to take Athos at his word and trust there won’t be any drama here.

“I know it must be so difficult to get a new co-worker so far into the process,” she says sympathetically, radiating warmth, reassurance and admiration to the best of her ability. It’s so convincing that even Athos is impressed. “I promise to do my best not to step on your toes, Louis. I’m just looking forward to learning from your process.”

“I’ll quite miss Anne Hapsburg,” Louis says, a bit mournfully, but then brightens again. “Still, all good things must come to _Anne_ end.” He laughs too enthusiastically at his own joke. “Get it, Milady? _Anne_ end.”

Anne gives a little tinkling laugh, studiously ignoring Athos’s raised eyebrow.

After a moment, Louis remembers that Athos is there too, and his attention swings back to him. “Oh! Milady, have you met our new director, Athos?”

“Once or twice,” Athos says dryly, and gets a look of confusion from Louis for his tone.

“Athos and I go way back,” Anne explains lightly. “In fact, we used to be married. Don’t look so worried, it was eons ago. No hard feelings. It just turns out we work better as friends and co-workers than husband and wife.”

At that one, Athos has to turn a snort into an unconvincing cough. Whatever else he and Anne are, they’re not _friends_ , they never have been. Even from several feet away he thinks he can feel the warmth of her body, and the scent of her perfume sends him dizzy. She left a bottle of it behind when she left him and he kept it in a drawer for months. Sometimes when he was lonely and felt like being especially masochistic, he would get it out, squirt a little bit into the air and breathe it in. It never really smelt the same as her, though, and when she turned up that first Thursday night he’d realised what a useless attempt it was. Anne’s unique in everything, including fragrance.

“Married!” Louis says, as if this is a new and novel concept.

Clearly, he _doesn’t_ do his research, since even if he’d just looked at their Wikipedia pages he would have seen them listed as each other’s past spouses. The press don’t care much – it was before Anne was famous, directors slash screenwriters don’t sell that many tabloids, and it’s not like they’ve been linked in any way in the intervening years – but it’s not exactly a secret. Hell, Anne’s even been asked about him in a few interviews over the years, and given dull and cliched but cheerful answers – very similar to what she just said to Louis, in fact.

Louis continues. “Isn’t that… awkward?”

“Not at all,” Anne says.

“It’s a bit of a strange position to be in, that’s all,” Louis says, looking from Anne to him and then back again.

“We’ve been in stranger positions,” Athos says, but his voice is so deadpan that he can almost see the slight innuendo float right over Louis’s head.

Anne gets it, of course, although he can tell her amusement is half due to surprise – normally the only time Athos makes even mildly dirty jokes is when he’s alone with her. Maybe he’s just too reserved and repressed to share them the rest of the time. She tries to glare, but can’t suppress a laugh, although she does her best to smother it quickly. Athos and Louis watch as she bites her lip to keep from smiling afterwards, eyes still dancing, and says, “Oh, shut up, Athos.”

As always, her laugh makes his heart squeeze in his chest. He glances away only to find Louis staring at her, equally as charmed by it. Anne is irresistible when she’s happy.

“Come on then,” Anne says to Louis, giving him another of those knock-out smiles, flashing the little gap in her teeth that is inexplicably gorgeous. “Treville’s assistant’s been showing me around, but I bet you know much more about what’s going on than he does. I’d love to hear whatever stories you have to tell.”

She looks back at Athos as they leave, arm hooked companionably through the already-smitten Louis’s, and mouths ‘behave’. He resists the urge to say the same.

X_X_X_X_X

The first week is frantic – Athos is up to all hours every night trying to turn the script back into something useable. The writers have clearly tried to make the script a collaborative process, which on some movies works fine, and on others creates a mangled snarl of plot and characterisation. Athos spends far too much time trying to untangle it back into something sensical.

During the days – and in this case a ‘day’ means from sunrise to sunset, because they can’t afford to miss any time with natural light – he directs the filming of any parts that are good enough to move forward on. Most of the biggest holes in the script are for the lead character, and there are a few scenes without him or where he doesn’t take centre stage, so to speak, so he concentrates on that. Anne is in more than a few of them.

Directing her is… difficult. Actually, it’s wonderful, and that’s the bit that’s difficult. Athos barely needs half a sentence of explanation each time before she’s nodding, agreeing, _yes, more emphasis on the second line_ , or _you’re right, I should be looking away for that part_. Her suggestions are all well thought out, based on the brief description she has of her character instead of the now-garbled script, and she’s happy to debate them with him. It’s an effort not to fall into discussion and forget everything else. The way her eyes light up when she’s passionate about something, the way she argues… it’s distracting.

They haven’t done any of the romance scenes, since they still need fixing – Louis’s input on his character’s scenes means they all contain his idea of romantic dialogue, and resemble lines that would be used by a character named Fabio in a book with a shirtless man on the front holding a wilting damsel. In those books, maybe they’d be great. In a movie, half the audience will burst out laughing at the first one. For now, Athos doesn’t bother discussing his changes with Louis, though he’s guessing when they start filming them he’ll have a fight on his hands for every tweak.

They’re holding off on filming much of the action, as well. Porthos and Aramis are still working to get everyone trained for the big fight scenes, and a lot of the areas they were going to use have been wrecked by the dam break. Louis already has a stunt double, but Anne Hapsburg’s doesn’t resemble Milady de Winter at all, so they start looking for another one to hire. Anne suggests Porthos and Aramis instead teach her to do the stunts – it’s not like her character will be falling out of planes or anything, after all, just some basic nonsense with knives and slaps. At first, Aramis politely but automatically refuses to consider this, and she persuades him in a brief sparring match that leaves Porthos cackling to himself and mocking Aramis for days. In fact, Athos suspects Porthos subtly provoked Aramis into the practice sparring match because he knew it would end like that.

Really, Aramis should have remembered that Athos’s ex-wife has always been a fan of doing her own stunts, and that her preferred form of daily exercise is Krav Maga. Or maybe he really never knew – Aramis and Anne always used to get along, more or less, but the main thing they had in common was Athos, and they rarely spent time together without him there or moved to personal topics of conversation when he was. In Aramis’s mind, Anne was ‘Athos’s wife’ back then, and is now ‘Athos’s ex-wife’, and he doesn’t really know much about her as a person outside that except that she’s capable of skewering him with her wit. Still, if Aramis had known Anne was so much tougher than she looks, he probably wouldn’t have gone into the fight underestimating her quite so much, and if he hadn’t underestimated her, he’d almost certainly have won.

Athos tries not to be distracted by them training her too, but again it’s difficult. He loves watching her move, even when she’s fully clothed, even from a distance. Anne always seems to move to music no one else can hear – not music like ballet, nothing so prim and proper. Music with a beat to it.

By Thursday, Athos is dead tired, but the idea of cancelling doesn’t even cross his mind.

X_X_X_X_X

It’s well after seven when everyone still working gets driven back to their respective hotels, and of course Athos ends up in a car with Anne, Louis, and d’Artagnan, the better to discuss changes and scheduling.

“I was only in the background of everything we shot today,” Louis says huffily.

“Your character’s scenes are the most vital, we need to rejig some of the plot and characterisation before we can start on them,” Athos says for the hundredth time. Normally all of those things are settled during pre-production, but the ‘too many cooks’ approach taken on this movie has scrambled the original script to a concerning extent.

“I know it’s frustrating,” Anne says soothingly. After so many hours today, her attempt at sweetness contains an edge of exhaustion, but she still does her best. “But you’ve told me about all the problems Rochefort created with your character – it’ll be worth the wait to have them fixed, won’t it?”

Athos sees d’Artagnan roll his eyes. D’Artagnan worships Treville, so he’d disapprove of anyone Richelieu hired without consulting Treville; and he worships Athos, so he’d disapprove of anyone who dumped him; but he seems to especially disapprove of Anne’s habit of winding Louis around her little finger effortlessly. Tell the truth, Athos isn’t too fond of it himself.

Louis sighs. “Oh, well, I suppose. Would you like to go get some dinner, Milady? I’m starved. And you two are invited as well, of course,” he tacks on, without much enthusiasm.

“I’m planning to just get room service, thanks,” Athos says. “It’s been a long day.” He flicks his gaze to his ex-wife, who meets it steadily for a long moment, expression unreadable.

Then she looks out the window, and probably only Athos can see her half-smile reflected in it. “Me too,” she says innocently. “Thanks for the offer, Louis, but at this point I just want to be in bed.”

Their rooms are one floor apart, but the others get off the lift before them, so Anne doesn’t even bother to stop by hers. He politely holds the door open for her since she doesn’t have a key card to his room here, and she hooks her fingers into the sides of her panties and steps out of them in the entryway almost before he can close it behind them both. He stares at the little triangle of red lace on the floor and feels his mind disengage completely.

He has her down on the little armchair in moments, skirt shucked up, legs over his shoulders, cunt bare to his hungry gaze.

“This is not a bed,” she manages to gasp out as he spreads her thighs wider with his hands, licking his way up the inside of her leg with single-minded devotion, enjoying the sweet scent and taste of her smooth skin. “And I’m not room service.” Although she is being serviced, and they are in a room.

“I decided I prefer eating out,” he says indistinctly against her inner thigh. She’s practically dripping with need. He can smell how badly she wants him to move his mouth onto her, the scent of her arousal just as familiar to him as everything else about her, and just as amazing. The muscles in her thighs tense as he bites one lightly, and he’s close enough to see the way her body clenches on empty air, all but begging to be filled. He wonders if she’s been anticipating this moment all day – all week – like he’s been. She’s so wet it seems possible. He gives in and moves to taste her properly, tart and sweet on his tongue at once as he slowly licks a stripe up the length of her cunt. She jerks against him with a bitten-off moan.

She winds her fingers into his hair, holding him there, and he savours the force of it just as much as he savours the way she shudders against him, hips riding up against his mouth to chase the pressure. “Such a smart mouth. You’ll have to keep it occupied somehow,” she says hoarsely, managing to be commanding despite her clear need.

He works his fingers inside her and she groans, pushing against him helplessly, wantonly, hands clenching on his scalp just as her body clenches on his fingers. Athos loves making her come like this, loves looking up at her face as he pushes her over the edge, loves watching every moment of shuddering helplessness wrung out of her by her climax. It’s a private performance, just for him, for her enjoyment but, ultimately, also for his, and at his bidding. The knowledge that he’s causing all those little jerks and whimpers and low, breathy moans never fails to make him hard. Maybe people are right when they say all directors are tyrants, but if he is one, his favourite order will always be the one he mouths against her cunt.

“Enough,” she gasps eventually, because she can be a tyrant as well and they both know he likes following her orders. She twists his hair around her fingers painfully to force his mouth away from her, but she can’t do anything about the crude thrusting motions of his fingers, and he keeps going for a few moments just so she’ll twist his hair a little more tightly. Then he gives in obediently, sitting back on his heels and trying not to smile at her. He licks his lips – the bottom half of his face is soaked in the taste of her.

She moves down from the chair to straddle him, hands moving to his belt and zipper as he kisses her deeply, sharing her own taste with her. Once she’s got his cock out, she teases it lightly and skilfully with just the pads of her hot fingers, even flicking the tip with one so that he groans against her mouth, before beginning to toy with him in earnest. He’s achingly hard in moments, trying not to buck against her and her too-clever hands, and it’s not long before she pulls a condom out of a pocket – they’re still fully clothed, he realises a little wildly, and somehow that thought is just as arousing as everything else – and smooths it onto him with a stroke that makes him thrust up against her. Then she’s impaling herself on him, a sigh caught in her throat as she feels the stretch and burn of him inside her, riding him slowly and relentlessly to ecstasy on the hotel room floor.

It’s two hours before they remember to order room service.


	3. Week 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm going to be away for the next couple of weeks, I figured I'd just put this up now.
> 
> Just FYI, there are a lot of characters who have been or will be briefly mentioned in the story - the Queen, Rochefort, Marguerite, Alice, Vadim, etc - who aren't tagged, because I decided to only tag people who actually speak a line at some point. The rest are just background, detail, and slight influences on the plot, more than they are real characters. So if you're wondering why Sylvie's mentioned in this chapter but not tagged as a character, that would be why - and it's a good thing I don't have her speak any lines or actually appear, because I know literally nothing about the character so she'd be guaranteed to be OOC.

Two weeks in, Athos is certain he was right in his initial assessment: Louis is a good actor. The air of vulnerability he brings to the character may not be intentional, but it’s certainly effective. Unfortunately, in all other ways, Louis may be the worst casting decision Athos has ever known Treville to make.

Athos has been doing his best to improve morale, but he hasn’t found a way to stop Louis throwing his weight around by demanding continual, self-contradictory changes to the film’s plot, characterisation, dialogue, wardrobe choices, make-up, and basically everything else. Louis also keeps offending everyone else here by loudly questioning their skill and commitment. The man’s impossible to please and, frankly, nearly impossible to work with. He’s fickle, fastidious, overcritical and childish, and half the cast and crew are openly disrespectful in response, which just makes it worse.

According to d’Artagnan, word around set is that the stress of trying to keep him on task is one reason why Anne Hapsburg abruptly quit, although apparently there was also some drama with her, Aramis and the previous director that may have been a factor. Whatever caused things to go south, it hardly matters: Rochefort was fired, Anne Hapsburg quit to take some time to herself, and half the cast and crew blame Louis for the situation. As a result of all the drama, the production – already progressing poorly – ended up back at square one, hopelessly fractured, over budget and behind schedule. Morale is at rock bottom, and Louis’s attitude is keeping it there.

It doesn’t matter how many talks Treville or Athos have with him, it’s like the younger man has selective deafness. Or maybe just a selective understanding of the world in general. Richelieu has better luck, when he’s around – he worked with Henri de Bourbon a time or two and can leverage off that, and he sees no problem with lying to achieve his aims – but he doesn’t really have the time to babysit their lead actor constantly, not when he needs to sort out the funding situation. Even Athos, who’s never liked Richelieu, can admit that there’s no one better at sorting out that kind of issue than him. The man’s nearly always right when it comes to money.

To Athos’s extreme displeasure, Richelieu does turn out to be right about one other thing: Anne is _very_ good at managing Louis. With just a smile, a tilt of her head, a clever comment, or an admiring look, Anne can get Louis to do pretty much anything. He backs down, he gives that big goofy smile, he becomes a hundred times easier to direct. It’s useful. Hell, it’s crucial.

He hates it.

Of course, no one would _enjoy_ watching their ex-wife flirt with someone else, but it’s more than that. It wouldn’t be so bad if he felt sure that Anne was only charming the man to get this movie made and had no intention of going beyond light flirtation. But for all his faults, Louis isn’t a complete waste of space – he can be sweet, sometimes even funny in his odd way. He’s utterly besotted with Anne and makes that abundantly clear whenever he’s around her, which Athos can tell she enjoys. And, perhaps most importantly, dating Louis for a while would give Anne incredible publicity and access to some of his industry connections – it’s not like her career really needs the help anymore, but Athos knows that Anne’s ambitious and pragmatic enough to consider that. After all, it’s why she dated him originally.

Anne’s been with quite a few people since the divorce. The first time Athos saw an article emblazoned with news of her dating someone – an English duke, of all things, which is what had made it news-worthy back when Milady de Winter was hardly a household name – he’d felt it like a kick to the stomach. That Thursday, he’d bought a bottle of whiskey and planned to drink the whole thing to help the suddenly empty evening pass, sure there was no way she would turn up. She’d sauntered in before he finished his second drink and helped herself to the rest of the glass, then boosted herself up onto the kitchen counter and dragged him against her by his shirt, and somehow or other he never got around to asking her outright if it was true.

He decided to believe it was false news, the kind of thing magazines pick up from a single dubious source and don’t bother to verify, because she’d hardly keep sleeping with him while dating a duke. The next article like that had contained pictures of her kissing the man in question ( _not_ the duke), but when she still turned up on Thursday he chose to think it wasn’t a serious relationship, that maybe it was even just a ploy to advertise the movie they were co-stars in. As her career’s picked up, the number of articles have only increased, and so has the amount of effort it takes Athos to ignore them – he can hardly go by a magazine rack these days without noticing out of the corner of his eye that according to them his ex-wife is unexpectedly pregnant, having an affair with a married man, going through a nervous breakdown, addicted to pills, and dating half a dozen random celebrities.

Whatever Athos tries to tell himself, though, he knows that some of the stories are true. A miniscule percentage of them, sure, but that’s still a fair number of partners. The absolute confirmation was over a year after they divorced when Anne brought a box of condoms along with her one Thursday, even though he was sure she was still on the pill. He didn’t ask why, because he really, really didn’t want her to answer. Instead, he took the mature route – he went on a self-destructive drinking binge for a few days, added condoms to his weekly shopping list, and never let himself think about it when she was with him.

This is different. Louis’s just her type, judging by the relationships she’s had since the split – A-list, naïve, adoring, simple, connected, and photogenic enough not to make her look bad – and a public romance with him will be good exposure for her and great exposure for the movie. But he can’t watch her carry out a romantic relationship directly in front of him. He has limits, for God’s sake.

Right now, he’s starting to think watching her sit on top of another man (practically riding him, for fuck’s sake) may also be one of those limits, even if it’s part of her job to do so. It’s on the tip of his tongue to suggest that Anne be more covered up for this, or possibly even all the way on the other side of the scene from Louis, but he’s too professional to actually voice either idea. “Let’s try it again,” he says instead, proud that his voice is completely steady. “And this time, Louis, try to keep your eyes on her _face_ a bit more.”

They’re filming one of the first scenes where the main character and his love interest are together. Thanks to the time period, there’s a lot in the way of heaving bosoms, and he hopes he’s doing a better job than Louis of keeping his eyes up, but the amusement on Anne’s face is somewhat dashing those hopes. He’s sure she’ll find a way to bring it up the next time they’re in bed together, though he doesn’t know if her teasing will focus on him ogling her, or on the fact that he’s spent the past hour giving her advice and constructive criticism on how best to straddle another man and shove her breasts up into his face. 

It’s a meet cute for the characters, of course, and a cliched one – they literally crash into each other in the street and she ends up on top, sexual tension, comic misunderstandings, etcetera, etcetera. The first part wasn’t too bad, watching Anne happily mow down Louis’s stunt double, who is a complete professional and showed no interest in all that distracting cleavage even with it coming towards him at full speed. It’s the bit they’re filming now which is the problem – they’ve switched the stunt double out for Louis for the conversation between the characters, and he’s so clearly enjoying the situation it’s making Athos grind his teeth.

Maybe he’s just staying in character, Athos tries to tell himself. He watches as Louis’s eyes dart downwards and glaze over for the hundredth time in twenty minutes.

Alright, maybe not.

“Could you give me a second to fix up this dress?” Anne asks, sounding irritated. “Another two run-throughs and I’ll be topless.”

He blinks at the image and manages to nod, although watching Anne wriggling on top of Louis as she tries to adjust that bodice isn’t something he ever wanted to experience. Whereas judging by Louis’s expression, it’s a high point in his life. The man’s a famous actor, surely he has some experience with women – but then, Anne’s a class all of her own.

“You won’t need Phillippe again, will you?” Aramis says quietly from beside him.

Athos turns to look at him, glad of the distraction. “No, I don’t think so. We got the collision, and I don’t think there’s any point trying to get the fight with the guards until tomorrow. You have it all prepared?”

“Yes, the real challenge will be getting your ex to stick to the choreography instead of just taking out everyone,” Aramis says, voice dry. “I normally enjoy violent women, but in this case I can make an exception. I’d forgotten her mean streak.”

“Noted,” Athos says, trying not to look too amused, grabbing his nearby water bottle. Clearly Anne’s sparring victory still stings. And it’s not like she’ll ever agree to a rematch. However fit and talented Anne is (and _there’s_ a statement that sends his mind screaming down inappropriate roads), Aramis would have much better odds when he’s not busy patronising her. She enjoys mocking Aramis far too much to give him the chance of regaining his self-respect like that.

In fact, she’d probably say it’s good for Aramis to realise there are women who aren’t damsels in need of his chivalry and protection. Aramis and Anne never really argued back when Athos and Anne were married, but their banter always had a mocking edge to it. Anne told Athos once that she thought Aramis exploited his charm and looks to stop people realising that he was a bit of an asshole, and that someone else could never pull off the moves he managed to get away with consequence-free. She might be right about that, Athos admits, but then, that’s a criticism that it would be easy to make about Anne as well, which might be one reason why she never really took to him. Regardless of the reasons, she always got along much better with Porthos, despite their wildly differing personalities.

“Speaking of women, I got you a date,” Aramis says, and Athos chokes on his drink.

It takes some time for him to get his breathing back to normal. “You did what now?”

“A date,” Aramis repeats, looking far too pleased with himself. “Sylvie’s got a bit of a crush, so I said I’d speak to you, organise something.”

“Sylvie?” Athos tries to focus, hazards a guess. “Does she work in wardrobe? Lights?”

“Make-up artist. How is it you know the name of every person on this set _except_ the one who wants to jump your bones?”

Athos’s eyes stray automatically to his wife. Louis appears to be trying to help her fix the bodice. It’s a very hands-on approach. Anne has her ‘actress’ face on, a charming smile that means nothing at all – she could just be amused at his infatuation. She could be rolling her eyes at him. She could be threatening him under her breath. Hell, she could be smug she’s captivated him so well. Even Athos can’t tell, not when she’s deliberately hiding her emotions, not when he’s too far away to see the jump of her pulse and the expression in her eyes.

It’s tempting for a moment. Not Sylvie, whoever she is (he feels a moment of guilt at not knowing, he should definitely know who she is, but it’s hard to concentrate when Anne’s _so close_ all the time). But the idea of going on a date with someone else, Anne knowing he’s going on a date with someone else, Anne seeing him with someone else. Would it bother her? Would she yell at him, drag him away?

She wouldn’t, of course she wouldn’t, and he’s not starring in a bad romantic comedy, so he’s not going to try an ‘operation jealousy’ on his ex-wife.

“I don’t want a date,” he tells Aramis. “You should go for it.”

“She likes you.”

“God knows why,” Athos says. “Anyway, I have plans that night.”

“I didn’t set a night.”

“Exactly,” he says. “I have plans every night. I’m working on the script, or I’m hanging out with you three, or I’m reading my book, or I’m enjoying a bottle of something. See? Plans. My social life is packed.” 

Aramis pauses, twirls the tip of his perfectly-trimmed moustache around his finger like a bad villain from a melodrama. There’s real concern in his gaze. “It’s been years, Athos. I’ll admit, it’s awkward that Milady’s here now, but perhaps that’s a good thing. You can move on. Start seeing someone new. You can’t live on memories forever.”

“Oh, I know that,” Athos says, giving Aramis a smirk, but even he can feel that it comes out twisted and sardonic. “That’s why I’m planning to live on whiskey.”

X_X_X_X_X

Again, the trip back in the car long after seven, the claim to need room service, Anne’s veiled agreement to join him.

They’ve shared a car every night, it’s not just a Thursday habit, obviously, but he’s summoned all his self control to avoid glancing over at her with a meaningful, questioning look on the other days. Her saying yes, why not, let’s do this other nights beside just Thursday, let’s do this every night – that’s the stuff fantasies are made of. But the fantasies quickly lead to other fantasies, her continuing to join him at the apartment every night when they get back, her sleeping beside him, her moving her things back in, their marriage rebuilt, a slippery slope of stupid dreams and impossible hopes. He’s not an idiot, and he doesn’t like being kicked in the teeth emotionally, despite all evidence to the contrary. He needs to take what he can get instead of dreaming of more that he can’t have.

And then there’s the worse but far more likely possibility, that even asking might make her decide not to continue seeing him even once a week. She might realise he’s too involved, too emotional, that he’s never really moved on. It was the twentieth week when she asked if he wanted more than this, and then when he choked on his words, trying to force his suddenly-panicking brain to work, wanting to say _yes, please, everything_ but not managing to say anything at all, she went on to say that she didn’t want more, and was just making sure he felt the same. After that, what could he say? You’re the love of my fucking life? That would’ve gone down like a lead balloon. Better to have one night a week than to lay everything he has on the table for the slim chance of getting seven, and instead ending up with nothing.

Alright, so it’s just sex. But at least it’s amazing sex. That has to be worth something.

X_X_X_X_X

Despite the sleepy sense of contentment he gets after sex with her, late night Thursday is nearly the worst part of his week. It’s when he watches her get dressed in silence and starts counting hours until their next meeting – normally around one-hundred-and-sixty-five hours, but with the film messing up both their schedules, who knows.

Friday mornings are even worse, of course, because there’s still nearly as many hours left until the next time he sees her, and he hasn’t got the afterglow to distract him, or the sight of her pulling her clothing back on. He’s enjoying that particular sight right now. In one way it’s depressing to watch, seeing all that lovely smooth skin disappear, but he loves the way she stretches as she shrugs back into her clothes or pulls them up, loves the occasional request for him to pull up a zipper, loves watching her try to fix her wild hair. It reminds him of back when they were married and getting ready to go out. He would watch her reflection in the mirror as she applied make-up and put on earrings, totally absorbed by her task unless he moved close to distract her from it.

He’s watching the way she shimmies a little and unconsciously rises up on her toes as she struggles to pull her short, stretchy dress back down her torso, when she speaks.

“I swear your room’s the nicest one,” she says, looking around briefly and shaking her head in amazement, giving him a half-smile over her shoulder. “A spa, a couch, a bar, a king size… look, you even get a standing wardrobe to put your stuff in. Even Louis’s room doesn’t have one of those. Posh.”

It seems that his predecessor demanded the best room back at the beginning of filming, but that’s not what makes him suddenly concerned. Louis’s room. When did she see Louis’s room? _Why?_

His brain-to-mouth-filter suddenly disengages. “Aramis is trying to set me up with Sylvie,” he says. He has no idea why he says it. He’s better than this. He should be better than this. After a second, he adds lamely, “She’s a make-up artist.”

He can see her spine stiffen, the muscles in her neck and upper back tense, for one quick moment. Then she relaxes, and this time when she twists to face him, there’s nothing but light amusement on her face. “…And?”

“I just – I thought you might want to -” What, know about it? He’s a moron. Is he trying to pretend she’s not the only one with options? That’s a lie. Athos’s options ended more than half a decade ago when a beautiful woman slid onto the barstool next to his, and he looked over at her, and every cell in his body lit up just from her proximity, and every instinct screamed _this one_ in unison. Every moment since then has only confirmed it. Married or not, she’s it for him.

She arches an eyebrow. “I might want to… what?” A smirk curls her lip. “Athos, are you angling for a threesome? Because Sylvie’s the one who does my eye make-up every day, and based on my interactions with her, I don’t think she seems the type to go for it.”

“Right,” Athos says sarcastically, trying to keep his tone light. If she can be flippant, so can he. “ _That’s_ the only problem with us having a threesome.”

“Not a fan of the idea?” She picks up a stocking off the floor and starts to roll it up her leg leisurely. It shouldn’t be as sexy as when she removed it, but thanks to the way she slides her hands up her leg, it is. “I suppose a sex tape of me doing my ex-husband and his girlfriend wouldn’t be my favourite type of publicity. But can’t you just see Treville and Richelieu’s faces when someone brought that up at the press junket? It might be worth it for that.”

Is there a slightly sour note to her voice as she says the word ‘girlfriend’? He thinks there is, but the rest of what she says is purely amused, so he can’t be sure. Still, even the suspicion makes him feel more cheerful.

“I thought I’d check if it would be alright,” he says carefully, watching her closely for another reaction. “I don’t want to cause any problems, what with us working together and all.” 

She gives an indifferent shrug, but she also looks away, like she’s worried about what he’ll read in her gaze. “So long as you don’t offend her to the point where I end up in bright yellow eyeshadow for the rest of shooting, I can’t see why it would have any effect on me at all. Or is this your way of saying you’d like me to make myself scarce for a while? Spend my Thursday nights elsewhere?”

“Never,” he says thoughtlessly, and she flushes slightly, eyes brightening almost imperceptibly as she looks back at him. He should seize the opportunity, ask about her never-ending parade of casual boyfriends, ask why she still comes to him every Thursday despite that and despite their divorce, ask if working together brings back as many memories for her as it does for him. They used to debate about anything and everything, bantering, discussing, alive with interest in the other one’s point of view. And now for their work, they’re practically forced to interact that way again, and it’s amazing. They’re amazing. They always were. Does she remember when they didn’t need an excuse to talk like that?

“Well, then,” she says dismissively before he can screw up the courage to say any of that. “Like I said, it doesn’t matter to me. Do what you like. Although personally I’d be very wary about dating anyone _Aramis_ thinks is a good match. Do you remember that drama with Marguerite?”

“Vividly,” Athos says dryly. He takes a risk now, and adds, “Although he’d probably say it was still healthier than what we’re doing.”

“Is that why you haven’t told them? I always assumed you had, you know, until now,” Anne says. “Once Porthos started training me it became pretty obvious they had no idea you see me at all anymore, let alone weekly.”

It’s one reason, certainly. They’d disapprove greatly. Most of the world would be ridiculously jealous of him – he gets a weekly dose of hot, casual sex with a beautiful, kinky, and surprisingly flexible world-class actress. For nearly everyone, that’s material for their spank bank, a wild fantasy instead of reality. But his friends know him well enough to know that he could never be casual with Anne. After all, Porthos and Aramis had front row tickets for the painful months after the divorce, the excessive amounts of whiskey, the ranting and the crying, the naked loss and grief and fury of it.

Aramis probably still has a drawer full of mobile phones he confiscated during that period, because no matter how often he deleted Anne’s number, after a few drinks Athos could remember it perfectly and it always seemed a great idea to call her up – it says a lot for Aramis’s vigilance that not a single drunken call or text made it through. Porthos was the one who replaced the furniture and décor Anne took with her and tried to help exorcise her from the apartment, claiming a previous flatmate had left behind such varied things as a couch, a table, wall paint, and even bedding. Both of them were the organisers and sole attendees of the Great DVD Burning, where every one of the TV series and movies Anne was in went up in highly toxic smoke, even the ones where she only appeared in a single scene and was credited as ‘Girl Number 2’ or ‘Dead Prostitute’.

The burning was a bit pointless, though. He still has the digital files of everything she’s ever been in, not that anyone but him knows that. They’re in an unmarked folder with a generic, boring name on his computer, far down a file tree. In other words, he treats it like most people treat their porn. And it’s true there’s been half a dozen roles she wore only lingerie or even went topless for, which are no doubt providing inspiration for plenty of teenage boys over YouTube even now, but that was never why he liked the videos. He just likes… looking at her. Remembering how she was back then. He feels proud when he watches them, of her skill, of her determination, of how she managed to go from ‘Angry Woman 3’ to the well-known and -respected actress she is now.

She’s still looking at him, waiting for a response.

“Do _you_ think what we’re doing is unhealthy?” he asks, honestly curious. He knows it is, but is this the one time when he’s more insightful than she is? Or is it only unhealthy for him, and that’s why he can see it? Maybe for her it’s just letting off steam with someone she knows will never sell his story to the press or ask for more than she wants to give. No, it can’t be just that, surely. They’ve been too close in the past for it not to mean more.

“No,” she says, narrowing her eyes as if she’s thinking hard about the question, but he knows she’s being facetious again even before she continues. “I’m sure I read somewhere that orgasms make you live longer. Not to mention all the different kinds of exercise we’re getting. With the amount of effort we put in, I think some of our activities might count as cardio workout. However, that time with the shower rail was probably more of a weights session, and I think the new positions we tried about a month ago were heading more towards yoga than anything else, but -”

“You know what I mean.”

“Athos. Always so serious,” she says mockingly, as if she isn’t one of the only people he lets himself be playful with, and she leans across the bed to kiss him hard. He sighs into her mouth and opens his own to her, savouring the taste of her, half-tempted to pull her back into the bed and strip off the clothes she’s just managed to put back on. Then she crawls on top of him, and there’s nothing ‘half-’ about the temptation anymore, and he gives in to the press of tongue and teeth and the pleasure of skin against skin.

She’s avoided the question, but then, he’s not sure why he expected anything else from her.


	4. Week 3

“I’m still not certain about this move,” Anne says to Aramis. She’s sweaty, her hair’s mussed-up, her face is still red from exertion, and she’s so beautiful Athos wants to smile just at the sight of her.

“Why? As much as I hate to swell your ego, you’ve got it down perfectly. And it will look wonderful onscreen.”

“With the place already so full of _your_ ego, there’s no space left for mine to grow into,” Anne says dismissively. “And this move won’t work, I don’t care how long you spent planning it or how many backhanded compliments you throw at me. No.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very difficult?” Aramis asks, annoyed.

“No, on the contrary, most people tell me I’m very easy,” Anne says, pulling a reluctant laugh from Aramis. In the case of the tabloids, it’s true, they do have a tendency to view Anne that way – portraying her as the vamp, the seductress, or if you want to be crude, the whore. Whether it’s primarily due to her behaviour, the roles she’s played, or that wicked smirk of hers, is anyone’s guess.

“Not in any ways that will ever benefit me, sadly,” Aramis says with mock disappointment. “This throw is fine. It’s perfect. We love it. Please, just go with it.”

“When I’m wearing lycra, sure, the move is fine. But I don’t think there’s enough boob tape in the universe to keep this throw from being R rated when I’m wearing that damn dress.”

“Huh,” Porthos says, considering this. He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “I might have a talk with Alice in wardrobe about that. I bet she knows a few tricks.”

“I bet she does as well,” Anne says, smirking at him. “Let me know if you can find out what they are. You might have to dig _deep_.”

He makes a rude gesture, but he’s grinning anyway. “Yeah, yeah. But she seems nice, right?”

“Uh huh. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Well, there’s a severe constraint,” Aramis says, grinning at her as well.

Anne throws her sweaty towel at him. “Oh, you’re one to talk. Is there a woman on set you _haven’t_ seen naked yet?”

Athos is maybe fifty feet away, close enough to hear and watch them. Part of him wants to move closer and join the conversation like he would have years ago, but his throat feels a lot like it’s blocked up, old emotions choking him, so maybe he should wait until that passes. Listening to the three of them argue brings back hundreds of memories – barbecues at Porthos’s place where they’d run through his beer supply in hours, nights out where the others would mock Athos for getting distracted by Anne dancing and dragging her home early, games of Monopoly that they all got far too invested in winning. They’ve always been _his_ friends, first and foremost, not Anne’s; but that doesn’t mean that there was no warmth between them at all.

He tries to return his attention to the man standing beside him, but Louis is frowning as he watches the others as well. It’s a few minutes before he speaks.

“Honestly, it’s absurd they’re letting Milady do stunts herself. The stuntmen are trained for it, and they’ll do a better job.” Louis looks back at Athos, shaking his head, clearly disapproving. Athos thinks there might be an element of resentment underneath it. “Getting all sweaty and over-muscled just to show off. I’ll never understand why so many actresses think they have to prove how tough they are. There’s nothing wrong with being feminine.”

Athos blinks at him, not sure how to address all the problems with that speech, highly tempted to tell Louis the only absurdity here is him. Anyone who can watch Anne moving about in lycra and _disapprove_ of the sight is clearly mad.

Then he glances across at Porthos, Aramis and Anne as it occurs to him that if he could hear their earlier discussion, they can certainly hear Louis as well. Aramis and Porthos both have raised eyebrows, willing to be amused by the comment. They’re amused by Louis a lot, probably because unlike Athos, they rarely have to deal with him directly. Anne, on the other hand, has set her mouth into a flat line, an expression that sets off a warning alarm in Athos’s head – _Danger, Will Robinson_. He should probably say something.

Before he can, Aramis breaks the awkward silence, turning to Anne. “Hey, so we were all planning to head to the bar in town later. You in?” Immediately after offering, he visibly remembers why he didn’t ask her to begin with, and glances at Athos with a look of horrified apology. It’s almost comical.

Anne’s eyes flicker to Athos for a moment as well, and then she shrugs and says, “Sure, why not.”

Athos’s stomach drops in disappointment for a second, although it isn’t at the thought of her going to the bar with the others. He already told Aramis and Porthos he was probably too busy to go out with them tonight. It’s Wednesday today, so there was no reason to think she’d come back to his room tonight, but since they’re busy tomorrow night he’d hoped against hope anyway. 

Treville’s suggested they spend tomorrow filming a night scene, since the cameramen claim the moon will be just right to augment the lights and filters they have. Normally, they’d just use ‘day for night’ techniques on a film like this, but Richelieu and Treville hired some specialty night equipment for the last film they worked on – a relatively high-budget horror movie – and they’ve still got another two weeks left on it, so they may as well take advantage and get slightly better effects. It all sounds reasonable – that is, until Athos mentally substitutes a night of passion for six to ten hours of explaining to Bandits 1 through 8 that they have to keep their faces tilted at just the right angle for the lights to hit them most dramatically.

“It’s been a while since we’ve played pool,” Porthos says to Anne, grinning roguishly. “Probably lost your touch, yeah?”

“Oh, I love pool,” Louis says enthusiastically. Athos wonders how he can be perfectly aware he can hear them and perfectly aware they can hear him when he speaks to them, but still clueless that they can hear him when he’s _not_ intending to speak to them. Louis has a very special level of obliviousness. And yet he’s difficult to really hate – he’s childish in both his enthusiasm and his cluelessness, and it makes him seem harmless and oddly charming. Now that filming’s moving on at a decent pace again, the cast and crew are already starting to warm up to him again.

“Uhhh… you’re welcome too, of course,” Aramis says. Athos can tell that Aramis’s enthusiasm for the evening is already beginning to flag.

“Excellent,” Louis says. “A real country pub. I don’t suppose you’d let me buy you a drink, Milady? Maybe even a beer!”

Athos briefly wonders what kind of a life you have to live to pronounce the word ‘beer’ as if it’s something strange and slightly magical, and if Louis believes that only country pubs sell beer. 

Anne gives Louis a saccharine smile, and that warning blares again in Athos’s head. “I don’t know, would you consider drinking in public to be a very _ladylike_ thing to do? I’d hate to come across as unfeminine.” The question’s so pointed even Louis can’t miss that she’s offended.

Louis flushes slightly. “Oh, I – I didn’t realise you could hear…”

“So you’d prefer to have said it behind my back?” Anne says, going from annoyed to distraught in moments. Clearly, she’s decided that exaggerated hurt will have more of an impact on Louis than anger. She’s judged him pretty well so far, Athos thinks, so she’ll probably be correct again. “I didn’t think you were that kind of person, Louis.”

“Milady, I should never have said anything like that,” Louis says, face starting to crumple a little, going anxious in the face of her clear disappointment in him. “I’ll do anything. Only please, don’t be mad at -”

She’s already rounded the corner before he can finish his sentence.

“Looks like I’m in the doghouse, or sleeping on the couch, or whatever you call it,” Louis says, dejected. “I’ll have to make it up to her somehow.”

Athos stiffens. Does Louis think ‘sleeping on the couch’ is just a metaphor for being in disgrace, like ‘in her bad books’ or something? Or are the two of them actually sleeping together? He feels bile rise in his throat and tries to swallow it down.

“Try giving her some shoes,” Aramis says to Louis, manfully keeping a straight face. “Women love shoes. Especially pink ones.”

They all watch Louis leave, brightening up at the idea of fixing things with his wallet, and already starting to check the maps on his phone for designer stores in the local area.

“You may have just sent him to his death, you know,” Athos says eventually. He can’t bring himself to mind this idea too much.

Louis can’t have meant he was really sleeping with Anne. She wouldn’t do that, surely. Well, of course she’d do it in the general sense, she dates men all the time, but not right here, not now, not while they’re all in the same hotel. She wouldn’t. He imagines her slipping out of his room late on Thursday night and going to join Louis in his and the bile rises again. And – fuck, did he prompt this with that stupid question about whether it would be alright to date the make-up girl? He practically gave her permission to do the same.

“It’s a distinct possibility, I’ll admit,” Aramis says, equally unbothered by this, although he does look a little concerned about Athos. 

“Nah, nowhere in town’ll sell him pink shoes, especially not at this time of day,” Porthos says. “He’ll end up with roses or something, I bet. Who knows if that will go down any better, though.” He glances sideways, dark eyes bright with the same concern as Aramis. “So are you coming out tonight?”

“He wasn’t planning on coming out even before I invited her,” Aramis says, a little defensively. “Remember?”

“Yeah,” Porthos says, eyes still steady on Athos. He’s always been the most emotionally aware of them, in some ways, the caretaker out of their group of friends. “So are you coming out tonight?”

Athos thinks of Anne’s lips pressed flat in annoyance, eyes flashing. He thinks of her laughing carelessly with Porthos and Aramis. He thinks of her skin slippery with sweat and flush with exercise.

“Yes,” he says, before he can think too much about it. “I am.”

X_X_X_X_X

“I can’t believe she’s still betting with me,” d’Artagnan shakes his head in scornful and slightly drunk amazement. He’s speaking loudly to be heard over the music, and Athos can see Anne’s barely-suppressed smirk as she hears him. “And she’s even betting _more_. I’ve won twenty dollars off her already, and now for this game she’s put down _fifty_?” His face shows a flicker of confusion and suspicion as he glances back over at her, but the alcohol dulls it.

“Yes, I know,” Athos says, and takes a long pull of his beer to hide his own amusement. Porthos is over the other end of the bar sharing adorable smiles with a dark-haired woman who has to be Alice, and Aramis is in some kind of intense argument with a stuntman named Marsac, leaving d’Artagnan to play pool against a suddenly-clumsy and unskilled Anne. Athos is enjoying the show, despite the occasional flashbacks it gives him, despite the way those flashbacks make his heart ache a little more. 

Even quite a few beers in, though, d’Artagnan’s not an idiot. He takes a long, thoughtful drink as he watches Anne lean down over the table – smooth, purposeful, elegant, and not tipsy in the slightest – and make a perfect plain vanilla draw shot that sends the ball she was aiming for right into the hole she was aiming for. D’Artagnan stares wide eyed for a second, and then slumps with a groan. “She was playing me, wasn’t she? She played me.”

“Yes, I know,” Athos says again, and takes another drink as Anne starts to run the table.

D’Artagnan got here after Porthos and Anne’s game, which was so quick that it hardly seemed worth the coins they had to put in. Both of them are excellent pool players, with a history of hustling. It’s one of many parts of their pasts that are oddly similar – along with foster care, neglect, petty crime, and plenty of small mistakes and abuses they don’t like to share.

They ended up very different despite all the similarities, though. Somehow, Porthos grew up into a very open person, kind and friendly, always willing to give people the benefit of the doubt. Whereas if Anne shows emotion to someone she doesn’t know well, odds are it’s a test or manipulation in some way, and she never gives anyone the benefit of the doubt. It takes most people a long time to learn anything about Anne except what she wants them to see. Sometimes Athos wonders if he was just kidding himself when he thought he was the sole exception to that rule.

He stiffens suddenly as Louis walks up behind Anne and puts his hands over her eyes. Anne stiffens for a brief moment as well, probably resisting the urge to toss him halfway across the room – she doesn’t like being touched unexpectedly, especially in bars – but then turns around to face him.

Louis holds out something, beaming at her. A silver necklace, expensive-looking and absurdly out of place in this dingy bar. She looks amazed, touched, brings her hand to her chest as if to say, _for me_? Then she gives Louis a hug and a warm kiss on the cheek in gratitude and Athos’s grip on his beer tightens.

“Looks like he’s forgiven,” d’Artagnan says disapprovingly. Apparently Porthos or Aramis have filled him in on earlier. “I guess he came up with something sufficiently shiny. Figures that Richelieu’s only friend would be just as mercenary as he is.”

Athos doubts Anne considers Richelieu a friend or vice versa, however well they get along, but that’s hardly the relationship that’s troubling him right now. He tries to force his grip to loosen before the bottle breaks. You don’t buy expensive jewellery to apologise to a woman you’ve known three weeks, not unless you know her in the biblical sense as well. So Louis and his wife really are fucking. His ex-wife. She’s his ex-wife. But wife or ex-wife, whatever she is, she’s _his_ , even though he knows he’s not allowed to think that, that she’d verbally skewer him if she knew he thought that, that you can’t own another person. Well, she owns him, so maybe you can. But no one owns Anne, not him, not Louis. That doesn’t stop the idea of Louis having her in any way from being torturous.

Louis and Anne, together. He has a sudden, horrifically vivid mental image of it – Anne naked and writhing on top of the other man, dark hair a waterfall down her pale back, Louis’s grinning mouth on her, his clumsy hands touching her, Louis thrust up deep inside her. The pain in his chest is sharp and agonising, like a stab wound.

“I think she’s forgotten our game,” d’Artagnan says, a little triumphantly. He gives Athos a look and frowns, suddenly concerned. He wasn’t there for the divorce, or for the aftermath, and he never knew Athos and Anne as a couple. It was before his time. As far as he’s concerned, they’re ancient history, but something about Athos’s stare must bother him. “Are you okay? Do you need another drink?”

“No, I’m fine.” He holds up his nearly-empty beer in lame explanation, and d’Artagnan nods and goes to get himself another one. Athos must be doing a really good job at staying expressionless, because if it were otherwise, he knows d’Artagnan would never leave. He’s never met anyone as protective of the people he cares about as d’Artagnan is.

Athos would like another drink. Craves one, in fact. But bars don’t typically let you leave still carrying a drink, so he downs the rest of his quickly, eyes still fixed on Anne. She must feel his gaze on her, but she doesn’t show any signs of it, laughing and smiling up at Louis.

He puts down his empty bottle and leaves, walking out the door almost blindly.

He hasn’t gone more than half a block when he hears footsteps behind him. For a second, he assumes it’s one of his friends, noticing his disappearance and coming to investigate. But the step is lighter.

“Athos?”

Athos stops and turns. “Yes?”

“Are you alright?” she moves closer, but there’s not much light, so he can’t tell if she’s concerned or simply curious. 

“Fine,” he spits out, though he can hear the bitterness in the word. “Just fine.”

She’s within a few feet of him now. “I’ll walk back with you,” she offers, and he can see the gleam of her teeth in the streetlight as she smiles at him. “The bar was getting a little claustrophobic.”

He lets her fall into step beside him, trying not to say anything insulting, anything stupid. Of course, he doesn’t have that much self control. “Won’t Louis miss you?”

“Probably,” she says, not sounding too concerned. “You know what they say about absence and hearts, although I suppose with his attention span, it could go either way.”

Is that what this is to her? What he is to her? A way to make Louis jealous? That’s worse than if she stayed. But she did come after him, and he wonders, suddenly, what she wants. Maybe just like him, she’s depressed by the thought of missing a Thursday, so she’s aiming for some time together now instead. Usually that would flatter him, cheer him up, even give him hope for something more. Right now it infuriates him. She’s killing two birds with one stone – this will make it clear to her boyfriend he needs to give more than just one piece of jewellery to earn her forgiveness, and also let her have a cheap and easy night of fun with the ex she’s still got on a string. She’ll get a bracelet and get off in one simple step.

“Are you sleeping with him?” he asks suddenly, bluntly, rounding on her.

She pauses as well, blinking at him in surprise. He sees her lips curve in a smirk. “Interesting question. And why would that be your business?”

It’s the smirk that does it. Before he can think, he grips her shoulders and propels her backwards steadily until he has her pushed against the nearest building – not violently, just firmly. She doesn’t step to the side or bat his hands away, just looks up at him in interest. He leans into her, breathing in her perfume, somehow not stale even after hours of playing pool in that dingy pub.

“This is a new game,” she comments. She tries to sound only idly amused, but her eyes have darkened, and he can see the too-quick thrum of her pulse at the base of her neck, and he knows her, and so he knows there’s nothing idle about how she’s feeling right now. “Very public. I’m not sure if this _specific_ kind of ‘exposure’ will be great for my career, though. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but I’m pretty well known.”

“Yes? And does Louis _know_ you?” he asks darkly. He strokes a finger along her throat and watches the red flush of lust creep up it slowly. It’s almost a Pavlovian reaction, one they both have – standing this close equals sex. It has for years now. The days when they slept wrapped around each other are long gone.

“How Old Testament of you,” she drawls, leaning into him and smiling up in a way so wicked it should be illegal. “To answer your question, no, he doesn’t _know_ me. It’s worth considering, though. For the sake of authenticity if nothing else. I’m very method.”

“Your characters don’t sleep together at any point during the movie,” Athos says, though he’s not sure why he’s arguing that specific point, except that she’s goading him and he’s never been able to resist rising to the bait. He’s so close if he leant down just a little he could kiss her. She’s right. They shouldn’t be doing this in the street. He should move away.

He doesn’t.

“No wonder she seems so sexually frustrated,” Anne says with mock thoughtfulness. She’s definitely winding him up at this point. Her breathing’s gone a little shallow, and she arches against him very slightly so that her breasts brush his chest. Somehow, without him noticing, she’s moved one hand up to the back of his neck, toying with the hair there. “All that straddling and flirting but no big finale. Maybe I should do it just to honour the character. So meta. I could give her story a _real_ climax.”

“Really? With Louis? That’s optimistic of you,” Athos says, struggling not to let his bitter, furious jealousy colour his tone. It should be a turn off, but actually he thinks it’s having the opposite effect. Desire pounds through him, his heartbeat thudding dully in his ears and his breath catching at her closeness.

She bites his lower lip very softly before releasing it, deliberately provoking him, egging him on. “You’re not the only one who’s good at directing. I’m sure I could teach him a thing or -”

He slams his mouth down over hers with a low growl of rage, and she opens against the onslaught immediately, responding to the fierceness of it, letting him invade her mouth completely. He pulls back a little to bite at her lip as well, much more aggressive than the light nip she gave to his, and that makes her gasp against him, the flush that was climbing up her neck spreading to her face and chest. Anne runs hot when he takes charge, she always has.

She thinks this is some kind of fucking _game_ , he knows that, and although that’s a reasonable assumption what with the variety of different roleplays they’ve run through in the past, he’s jealous enough that her playful amusement still pisses him off. He wants her to stop being amused, to take this seriously, to take _him_ seriously.

He slides his hand down the front of her jeans to find her already hot and wet for him, and she arches against his fingers, giving him a better angle. He circles her clit lightly at first, moving her wetness around, enjoying the slickness of her need, the press of her body against his. She’s already gasping against him, already rubbing against him like a cat in heat, when he gives her the firmer touch she wants. She’s so wet it’s easy to push a finger inside her, start to thrust, start to bring her to the edge.

“Don’t fuck him,” he says against her lips, an order.

“What?” She’s still mindlessly rocking against his fingers, but she struggles to concentrate, gives him a confused look.

“You heard me.” He stops, slows his movement. He matches one thrust to each word. “Don’t. Fuck. Him.”

She moans at the words, eyes sliding closed, and he can feel the way she clenches around him at the order, hands clutching at his back, body jerking against his fingers. Her legs are shaking and he can tell she’s getting close. “I’ll fuck… whoever I want,” she manages, and he can’t tell if she thinks they’re still playing out some fun alleyway fantasy of his and that he wants her to be defiant, or if she’s serious, but it still sends a surge of heat through him that’s half desire and half furiously possessive jealousy. He wants to own her, wants to make her give in.

“You think he can do this to you?” He lightens his touch, keeps her right there on the edge, the friction from his fingers not quite enough, stroking her inside but not hitting the spot that always makes her jolt against him helplessly.

“Oh God,” she whimpers, squirming against his fingers, trying to get more purchase.

“Can he do this to you? _Answer me_.”

“Please, please, just don’t stop, please give me -”

“I’m not going to let you come if you can’t even answer a simple question.” Athos lets his thumb ghost across her clit, but also lets it be pushed back easily instead of holding firm when she bucks against him, so that she doesn’t get any real pressure. “Do you really think Louis can do this to you?” 

“No,” she gasps. She’s wild-eyed, sweaty, agonisingly close to coming but not quite there. He can feel the hungry clench of her body around his fingers, and withdraws them to her despair. She gives in. “No, no one can fuck me like you, Athos. No one. Now please, please, just shove your fingers back into me – or, or take me against the wall – I don’t fucking care – come _on_ -”

“So you won’t go near him?” He pulls his hand nearly out of her jeans, waiting expectantly for an answer. “You won’t touch anyone else. You’re mine. Say it, Anne.”

“Fuck you.” She arches against him in desperation, but when he doesn’t slide his hand back down, she growls wordlessly and finally attempts to take matters into her own hands.

She tries to move her own hand down, to touch herself, finish herself off, but he cuffs her wrists easily with his fingers and holds them high above her head. Frustrated, she tries to slot herself against his leg in response, tries to roll her hips to get some stimulation, desperate to come grinding against him, but he uses his body to press her tight against the wall so she can’t do anything, can’t move against him at all. She lets out a little moan of need and fury combined, body trembling and tense with desire.

“Planning to get off by dry humping my leg in a public street?” he asks mockingly. “A bit tacky, isn’t it?”

“If you weren’t such an _asshole_ -” She breaks off into a whine as he pushes his body a bit harder against hers, crushing her to the wall momentarily.

“You said you wanted authenticity,” he says against her mouth, and she tries to bite him. He barely evades her teeth. He knows he sounds smug. “And here you go, authentic sexual frustration.” He shifts so he can capture both her wrists in his left hand, leaving the right one free. He doesn’t return to playing with her clit, though, even though from the look on her face she desperately needs him to, just runs it down her side like he’s soothing a horse. Even that seems to wind her tighter right now.

“You fucking -”

The second she opens her mouth to throw expletives at him again, he pushes his fingers inside, still a little damp with her arousal. She bites at them too but he ignores the brief sting and thrusts his fingers into her mouth just like he was just doing with her cunt, just like he wishes he could be thrusting himself into her right now, matching it to the rhythm they often fall into right at the end, the rhythm that never fails to push them both over the edge and leave them shuddering and shattering. She groans around his fingers, maybe from the memories, maybe from the taste of her own desperation he’s forcing deep into her mouth, maybe from the aching hollowness of unfulfilled need.

He pulls out his fingers and kisses her hard again, all tongue and teeth and need. Her panties are wet, he knows, thighs damp, insides twisted up with wrenching, nearly painful desire, nipples hard and tight. He’s hard as well, but somehow after one last grind against the softness of her, he manages to pull back, stepping away and releasing her so suddenly she might fall if she wasn’t leaning against the wall.

For a moment she just shudders, breath heaving, getting herself back under control. Then she tilts her head and considers him, letting her arms drop from where he was holding them up. The flush of desire fades a little now that he’s not touching her, but he can still see the racing pulse at her neck, can hear the unsteadiness of her breath, can sense how badly she wants to come. After she manages to get her harsh, needy breathing back to a more normal rhythm, she says, “Does this mean I’m allowed to bring myself off now?”

“If I say no, will you listen?”

“That depends on the payoff and the punishment,” she says, licking her reddened lips very purposefully, mouth stretching into a smile. She fixes herself up, shivering a little as she pulls up the zip on her jeans, apparently deciding not to bring herself off in the street despite what she just said. “But you know I always aim to please.” She takes his arm like they just stopped to talk for the moment, starting to lead him the rest of the way down the little street.

Yes, but to please who? 

“I assume we’re going back to your room to continue this.” She’s barely managing to sound casual, and he can see by the way she shifts on her feet as she walks she’s still extremely turned on, which makes it hard for him as well – ‘hard’ being precisely the right word to use. He knows exactly how ready she is for him.

Does she still think this is some kind of jealousy kink, a little roleplay of anger, just an excuse to dominate her and punish her for a little while? This is the problem with never talking and always fucking, sooner or later it’s impossible to tell what’s dirty talk and what’s just talk. Though he supposes he didn’t help matters by fingering her on a public street. And while he’s still jealous, still wounded, he’s also turned on right now, and the idea of spending a couple of hours continuing this is very appealing. Any chance to shift this to a real conversation seems to have passed.

And if he’s honest, he doesn’t want a real conversation, too scared of what she might say, too scared of what he might. They don’t have much anymore, not compared to what they used to, and the idea of losing what little they have left terrifies him. Lust, though – lust is easy and simple. He never has to second-guess what he’s doing or saying when they’re together like that. It’s easy the way everything between them used to be easy. He wonders if they can ever get that back, wonders if she’d ever want to try. Probably not.

He keeps pace with her anyway, mind already racing with wicked ideas, letting himself be distracted by need because it’s easier than love, especially when love is unrequited. “Sounds good to me. We’ll see what else I can get you to say.” Her step falters for a second, a shudder of lust going through her body.

In this way, at least, he knows her well. He knows how to wind her up, knows how to drive her crazy, knows how to push her right to the edge and hold her there until she cracks. He can get her to say she won’t fuck Louis – he can get her to sob it, swear it, even scream it if he wants. He can get her to say she’s his and only his, that she’ll do anything he wants, that she’ll do anything he tells her to do. Just like always, in the games they play in bed she’s more than willing to be owned by him, more than willing to promise whatever she thinks he’s looking for her to promise to get them both off, to have a good time. He knows how to persuade her to say almost anything.

What he doesn’t know is if she means a word of it.


	5. Week 4

“Porthos said you wanted me?” Athos asks a little grumpily, coming into Treville and Richelieu’s makeshift office where Anne’s waiting. To his surprise, things haven’t been awkward at all since the other night. The only noticeable difference is that she keeps throwing him these thoughtful, considering glances. She hasn’t spent any more time with Louis. She hasn’t spent any less.

She grins at him flirtatiously, leaning back against the wall in a way that shows off her curves. “Oh, always. In this case, I just need to know the filming schedule for the day after tomorrow, though.” He can tell she’s nervous about something, though. He can always tell with her, except for the times that really matter, when she closes off her face and he’s left thrashing about cluelessly.

“Pumping me for information? You haven’t even brought me a drink as bribery.” It’s getting late, and he could definitely use one with the day he’s had. It took one-hundred-and-thirty-one takes for the inspirational hero speech. _One-hundred-and-thirty-one_. And he’s still not thrilled with the result. He wonders sourly if they can give the speech to Anne’s character instead, but he’s not sure any of them can take hearing it again.

“Well, if you just let me know how you’d _like_ to be pumped, then next time, I think you could end up in the palm of my hand.” She raises her eyebrows at him, looking far too smug about that.

He smiles in spite of his bad mood and in spite of the terrible double entendres. She can always amuse him, even when he’s determined not to be amused by her, even when he does his best not to show it. “I was planning to do the other bandit fight scene the day after tomorrow. Philippe and the others have it down, and Aramis said you’re more than ready for it.”

“More than ready,” Anne echoes, raising an eyebrow. “That’s unusually complimentary of him.”

Athos nearly says that Aramis has missed her. He thinks it’s the truth – that Aramis secretly likes being called on his bullshit occasionally, and no one’s better at that than Anne. Not that Aramis would ever admit it. Instead, he says, “If you ever want a job as a stunt double, I think he and Porthos will seriously consider hiring you.”

“Tell you what, I’ll give you first refusal if I ever decide to give up on this mad acting business,” Anne tells him, still flirting lazily. He can tell she knows he’s in a bad mood, and that she’s deliberately trying to lift it, and that cheers him up more than anything else. “I think I could be a wonderful director, if you know of an opening. I feel like I’d enjoy working under you again.”

“I could probably think of a position you’d like, if it ever comes up,” he drawls. “Was that all?”

“I just want to be sure what time we’re likely to finish,” she says, and this time it doesn’t seem like an innuendo at all. She hesitates, than adds, “Louis wants us to go out for dinner and talk about character motivation.”

His slowly building good mood disappears entirely. Well, that explains why she was being so friendly, and yet still had a slightly anxious air about her. “Late,” he says, a little shortly. “You know how long action scenes take.”

She looks at him, narrowing her eyes. “Athos – I think we might need to talk about the other night. Not all the begging and denial stuff, _that_ was fine, amazing even, and I’m looking forward to getting you back for it – but the other stuff. I know talking about these things isn’t what we normally do, but some of what you said -”

“What, you want to talk here? Now?” There’s a note of panic in his voice he can’t hide.

“Maybe not,” she allows, letting him off the hook. “But sometime. For now, I’ll cancel on Louis, explain we’re filming then.”

“Right.” He sighs. The words come out without him meaning to say them. “I really need a fucking drink.”

Anne reaches up and fiddles with her hair for a few moments to get out a hairpin, then crouches beside Treville’s spindly desk. He’s in the city at the moment, theoretically helping Richelieu with his schmoozing but more likely holding the other man back, so Athos has been using the place while they’re gone. Of course, he hasn’t opened any of the drawers out of politeness, an affliction Anne doesn’t share. In moments she has the locked drawer open and is proffering the hidden bottle of whiskey. “Wish granted.”

“And a million dollars?”

“Oh, look who’s getting greedy,” she says, as if he’s not always greedy when it comes to her.

He twists the bottle open. Normally, he’d scold her for stealing, but Treville won’t be back for a few days so he has time to replace it. “Do you want some?”

“How generous of you, offering me the booze I just handed you.”

And which belongs to neither of them, technically. “I opened it. Ninon once told me that’s the only useful contribution men make towards the world, opening things like jars,” he tells her, passing it over anyway.

She snorts. “Of course she did.” She takes a swallow, letting out a sigh at the burn of it.

He shouldn’t have mentioned Ninon. He doesn’t even know why they don’t speak anymore, why their friendship faded a few months after the divorce, but it can’t be pleasant to be reminded that all their closest friends chose Athos in the divorce instead of her – not that he ever asked any of them to choose at all. It’s possible she did, though. 

“So what do you make of the film?” he asks. He actually really wants to know. She’s been sharing her thoughts on the scenes as they do them, and he can tell she’s enjoying her work, but he hasn’t spoken to her about it as a whole.

She considers it. “It’s nice to see Porthos again, and I’ve enjoyed annoying Aramis. It’s also nice to have the chance to work with Richelieu and Treville again. And you, for that matter. But the film itself… the plot’s ridiculously contrived, the characters are clichés, and even with all your work, too many of the lines are overdramatic. It’s not bad, but it’s not great either. It is fun to act, though, I’ll give it that.”

“I considered turning it campy,” Athos admits. As always, she hit the nail on the head with her description. “Hanging a few lampshades, getting you all to ham up the lines, making it clear it shouldn’t be taken seriously – it could be one of those fun things people watch because it’s so bad it’s good. But the advertising’s already gone too far, and Louis would have quit.”

“Shame, I would’ve loved that,” she says, leaning against the desk. After a second’s thought, he copies her position, leaning beside her. Her shoulder brushes his. “So what are you writing in your spare time?” 

“Who says I’m writing anything?” he says, although he knows it’s useless.

She whacks his chest lightly with the back of her hand. “Don’t play coy. Really. What are you writing?”

He used to tell her everything he worked on. She was the best critic he could ask for, seeming to find it easy to tell what he was trying to convey, and even easier to figure out if he was going wrong somewhere in the process. Not a single one of the original screenplays he worked on while they were together started production until after they were over, but the two that have been made since then are considered his best ever work despite the relatively low production values. 

He hesitates, and then starts to tell her about his current one. It feels like the past, and it feels like something changing, both at the same time.

X_X_X_X_X

He can hear the air conditioning, but no matter how much he strains, he can’t hear her breathing, can’t hear her soft footfalls. He can’t reach out to find her either, not when she’s ordered him to keep his hands wrapped around the bedposts. Anne generally prefers to use orders instead of real, physical restraints – she says real obedience is in the mind, and doesn’t need props to be achieved, although he knows she quite likes the scrape of rope or the coldness of metal on her body. They also don’t _have_ any props or toys here, unless they raid the actual movie props, and that seems like a bad idea. They’re making do, though.

He can’t see anything at all with this scarf wrapped around his eyes, and the anticipation is killing him. He hadn’t thought he had any energy left, earlier, but he found adrenaline spiking through him as they got closer and closer to the end of shooting for the day, the way it always does on the days he sees her. By the time they reached his room he was almost high with relief and anticipation. Clearly, she feels the same today, since when she’s tired she normally just tugs them both into bed for a quick, satisfying fuck instead of drawing it out with games or toys. But then, his behaviour last week is probably also a factor here, since Anne’s always favoured direct methods of payback.

He feels cool strands of her curly hair trail across his chest again, a teasing sensation, and gasps as it sends prickles racing across his skin. As soon as he lets out a noise, though, even that’s gone. She could be anywhere in the room. She could be by the headboard, about to lick or bite at one of his nipples. She could be down by his legs, ready to trail her fingers up and down his thigh again. Fuck, she could be sitting in a chair across the room, quietly bringing herself off to the sight of him spread-eagled and hot for her – she’s certainly capable of that. The only thing he knows for sure is that he feels the weight of her gaze on him at every moment, and the sensation is nearly as intense as when she strokes his bare skin.

“What do you want, Athos?” she whispers, and he still can’t tell where she fucking is. “Tell me.”

“You,” he says hoarsely, even though he knows it’ll get him nothing. 

“Well, that’s not very detailed. I thought you were supposed to be good with words. But then, I also thought you had more self control than a horny teenager, and just look at you right now.”

He groans helplessly. When he opens his eyes he can see blurred light out the top and bottom of the makeshift blindfold, but he can’t see her, and that’s what he wants more than anything. Still, he manages to choke out a list, “You on top of me, your mouth on me, your hand, _anything_ -”

“Hmm. I can see I should have said, what do you want that I’m likely to give you? And what will you give me in return?”

She would be a wonderful dominatrix, he thinks, if she wasn’t an actress. It’s the way she turns her voice into a whip, cold, quick and cutting, only to turn it back to something more like poisonous honey moments later. She’s been teasing him for what seems like an hour now. He’d be ashamed, how much he enjoys it when she takes complete control of him, but it’s not like they haven’t traded off this particular role often in their long relationship, to both their satisfaction. And after last Wednesday he probably has this coming – or not coming, as the case may be.

“You’re very hard,” she purrs. “I’ve barely even _touched_ you, and you’re gagging for it. Or should I say aching for it?” Her hand glides very lightly up and down his cock, the sudden sensation making him jerk against her helplessly. It’s the first time she’s touched him there since they started and he lets out a low noise that sounds embarrassingly like a whine, the tip of his cock leaking at just that slight touch. “Show some self control. It’s embarrassing, how desperate you are. You know it’s pathetic, right? You know _you’re_ pathetic? Say it, Athos.”

“I’m pathetic,” he chokes out, as turned on by her words as by her practiced, clever fingers. “I’m worthless, I’m pathetic, I’m – oh, oh God, _oh_ -”

“Don’t come until I give you permission,” she warns him, cool hand starting to tighten around the base of his cock, then sliding up. She runs her thumb across the tip, gathering the sticky wetness. It’s like touching a fucking live wire against him.

“Please -” Somehow he manages to force the rising tide back, manages to still his body, but his voice is a wreck and he knows he can’t hold out long.

“If you do, I’ll be disappointed,” she drawls, and her hand strokes him up and down again, and he can’t stop himself from thrusting against it, his grip on the bedposts flexing so hard he’s worried he’ll break them. “And you’ll be even _more_ disappointed. Trust me on that.”

Her disappointment would be worse than his own, he thinks, mind going even fuzzier as she pumps her loose hand up and down his length again. He hates disappointing her, but if she keeps touching him like that, he’s terrified he will. Then suddenly, she pulls away, taking her hand entirely off his cock. He misses it desperately, straining up against memory of it. Then, even worse, he hears the soft, wet noises of her lazily licking his pre-cum off her fingers. He can’t see it, but he can picture it, and that’s enough to make him tighten even more with need.

“You’d beg me, wouldn’t you? If I told you to? Beg for just the slightest touch of my fingers? A single lick? Beg.”

“Please,” the word tumbles out frantically. He doesn’t bother to even put up a token protest. In a different scenario, she might be looking for him to argue, but he can tell when she just wants obedience. “Please, if you would – Anne, I’m begging you – I’ll do anything, anything – please -”

“But after that little scene the other day.” She tuts, sounding very disapproving, stepping back so that he can’t even feel the heat of her body anymore. “I don’t know if begging’s quite enough. Really, after that, I don’t think you deserve to come, do you? Or at least not until you’ve apologised _thoroughly_.”

God, she can be a bitch. He loves it.

“Anything you want,” he promises. “I’ll do anything.”

“Oh, Athos.” He can hear her feline smirk in her voice, can picture the expression on her face perfectly. “You might live to regret that promise.”

X_X_X_X_X

It’s two hours later, and they’re both sweaty, wrecked messes, her head on his chest, fingers playing with his chest hair, his arm against her back holding her close, sheets shoved down because even they seem too hot on their already overheated skin – really, their skin touching each other should be uncomfortably hot as well, but she hadn’t seemed to want to move away and obviously he never does. He’s exhausted. She’d played with him for a while, touching him, scratching at him, experimenting with pressure and sensation, testing his willpower cruelly. Then she’d straddled his face and ordered him to give her a more thorough apology, rocking against his mouth and tongue as he brought her off. It had been an hour and a half before she let him take the blindfold off and allowed him to come properly, and his orgasm had made the whole world white out when it arrived.

They’re still less wrecked than last week – by the end of that, neither were at all capable of speech. Her return to her own room had been more of a stagger. If he hadn’t known she was stone cold sober he would have thought she was off her face.

But they’re capable of speech now, and so she clears her throat and says, “I think we need to talk about last week now.”

Oh, fuck, he thinks. They should. Of course they should. She was right about that when she first said it, and she’s right now. He just has no idea if the conversation is likely to end with his life even emptier of her, or with her deciding not to date Louis if it upsets him so much. It could go either way.

“Was it a game?” she asks forthrightly. “Like tonight. You know how we are. ‘Use your words’, or ‘you’re pathetic’, or ‘beg me’, or… well, ‘promise not to fuck Louis’. We say a lot of things in bed. Was it just for effect?”

“Not… entirely,” he says, which is a cop-out, but she hears his meaning anyway.

She shifts so that she can meet his eyes. “So what, _now_ you care? For God’s sake, Athos, I’ve dated dozens of people since the divorce – slept with dozens of people, even. You’ve never batted a fucking eye. What makes Louis so different?”

“We’re all working together,” he says, which, yes, again, it’s a copout. But he’s still flinching from the bluntly stated truth – slept with _dozens_ of people, thanks for that thought, Anne. “Do you know how messy this is likely to get if he realises that you’re dating him while sleeping with me?”

“Anything for the movie, huh?” she says, a little sardonically. “That didn’t seem to bother you when you wanted to ask out _Sylvie_.”

“I didn’t ask her out, as it happens. We can’t afford to screw up the film by causing that kind of drama.”

She changes tacks. “So it’s the potential fallout you’re worried about. You couldn’t care less if I date him, so long as I wait until the movie’s over so you don’t get caught up in the drama?”

He tenses immediately. “That’s not what I said. Besides, aren’t I always going to be ‘caught up in the drama’? I’m the one who you’re cheating on all these _dozens_ of boyfriends with, after all.”

“Who said boys? I said _people_ ,” she says, fluttering her lashes. It should look ridiculous, really, but she’s skilful enough to make it mocking instead. When he doesn’t respond except to glare at her, she ditches the playful tone and says, “Look, M’sieur Self Righteous, I haven’t cheated on _anyone_.”

“What, do you only date them for six-day intervals? That’s impressive scheduling.”

“I date them non-exclusively,” she says unsympathetically. “They all know that. Anytime one of them asks for monogamy, I explain that I’m not interested in it, that it’s not what I’m looking for from them. I have no intention of changing my lifestyle for anyone.”

“You changed it for me,” he points out, to avoid saying what he’s really thinking, that _he_ never agreed to be non-exclusive. She’d just fire back with a blunt reminder that they don’t have a relationship, so it’s absurd to wonder if it’s exclusive or non-exclusive – what they have is a regularly scheduled booty call. 

“I did, and how well did that work out, do you remember?” She doesn’t give him time to reply. “Exactly. I’m not looking for something like what we had. I don’t want that.”

“What was so bad about what we had?” The words burst out of him before he can choke them back, full of hurt.

She sighs. “Nothing. It was amazing. It was… it was once in a lifetime stuff. I don’t regret a moment of it.”

He blinks at her, suddenly silenced. For some reason it’s hard to breathe.

“And losing it destroyed me. Frankly, it doesn’t seem to have done much good for you either,” she continues ruthlessly. “Nothing’s ever going to measure up to that, for either of us, but that doesn’t mean I want to experience anything like it with someone else. It was a train wreck. My next marriage won’t be anything like that.”

“No?” he says, trying not to show that the casual, dismissive pronouncement felt like a skewer through the heart. “What will it be like? Will you still be showing up naked in my apartment every Thursday?”

“Maybe,” she says. “Why not? Whoever I end up with will understand that he doesn’t get all of me, that he doesn’t get to be my one and only. Hell, if he gets six nights a week with me, I’d say he’s getting a pretty great bargain – and he’ll probably be too worn out for a seventh, in any case. I can’t think of any reason to change my life for a relationship.”

He can think of a few. “So you’re not ever planning to end this? You think we’ll still be doing this when we’re forty? Sixty? Eighty?”

She laughs, and it comes out surprisingly bitter. “Oh, please, Athos. You’ll end it long before then. You’ll meet some lovely, sweet woman – the nicest you can find, saintly even, because how could you ever trust a normal, fallible human? And you’ll settle down, have children, and probably buy a house with a white picket fence. Pure suburban happiness.”

“You said nothing would ever measure up for _either_ of us,” he says, feeling his anger rise at her tone. It’s confusing. Every answer she gives only unleashes ten more questions. “What makes you think I’ll find something worth giving this up, if you don’t?”

“Oh, I don’t think you will,” she leans forward and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and again, there’s something mocking in it. “You’re just _much_ better at lying to yourself than I am.”

“Oh, really? _I’m_ the liar here?” He shouldn’t say it, but he does. It’s absurd she thinks he could be happy, or even think he’s happy, with anyone else.

Her eyes flash. “All I said is that you can convince yourself of anything. It’s a fucking gift. You’ll find a woman who’ll never lie to you, and you’ll tell yourself that’s all that matters. She won’t be able to hurt you because you won’t care enough. You’ll decide trust is so important that it doesn’t matter if you’re lacking excitement, passion, real love.”

“Trust is the most important thing in a relationship,” he says, but it comes out weak. Of course trust matters, but with her staring at him like that, it’s hard to remember why. He doesn’t trust her not to smash his heart into a million pieces. Because after all, she already has once. But now he lies here and he’d beg her to do it again if he could, because at least then she’d keep touching him, and _that’s_ all that matters.

Her gaze is scornful. “Oh, vital, I’m sure, much more than everything else combined. It’s absolutely worth throwing a happy relationship away the second someone does something that tests your trust for them, or makes you doubt them.”

He covers up the weakness in his tone and the pain in his heart by making his next statement nastier than he intended. “I’m sorry, I’m not really interested in getting a lecture on trust from _you_. You lie to _everyone_. I feel sorry for those poor fools who think they have a relationship with you. You fuck them, and then you fuck with their heads, and then you fuck around on them. And you tell them you’ll leave if they don’t put up with it.”

Now he’s cutting himself on his words as well, with the images he’s creating, with the thought of all the people she’s been with, all the people besides him who’ve seen her, touched her, had her like this.

But it’s also his description of what she’s done to him. Thursdays are the best day of his week, but that doesn’t mean it’s good for him, seeing her so often, seeing her like this. Maybe it’s good for her, but not for him. It’s a relationship that she set up, entirely on her terms, and he knew that if he wanted more than casual sex once a week – well, too bad, she’d leave. He gets only the scraps she’s willing to give, gets the same as every idiot he’d just described – fucked, fucked in the head, fucked around on. And he’s too messed-up and in love with her to try and end it.

“I get it, sure, why _not_ keep hammering your obvious disapproval home?” she flares. She’s no longer touching him at all.

“You’re the one who started going on about _trust_ ,” he says hotly, worrying at it like a dog with a bone, unable to let it go. He has a lot of stored resentment here. “I disapprove because -”

“Because you think relationships have to follow your rules, or they’re disgusting and pathetic,” she accuses, taking entirely the wrong message from what he was saying, eyes blazing with anger. “That _I_ have to follow your rules or I’m disgusting too. Yeah, I’m getting that. But then you always thought that about me, didn’t you?” 

“Don’t,” he warns her, but she ignores him like usual.

“Maybe you just think that about women in general,” she shakes her head at him, looking almost disgusted by him. “That to be worthy of your trust, to be worth loving, they need to be perfect and above reproach. Is that the way it works in your head? I think it makes it pretty fucking meaningless if that’s the only reason you trust someone. Trust requires risk. If there’s no risk, trust’s a given, and it doesn’t mean a thing. You could’ve taken that risk back then, you know. You _could_ have listened to me. You _could_ have trusted me.”

“I did, and how well did that work out, do you remember?” He throws her own words back in her face, and watches her pale as they hit. It feels good, it feels _right_. That must be what this sour taste in his throat and the pain in his stomach is, righteousness, surely. How dare she drag this conversation back to the past.

She takes several deep breaths to steady herself, moving further from him on the big white bed. “All I’m saying,” she says in a tight little voice, “Is that yes, I lied. But you made a choice there too. You could have tried to move past it, learnt to trust me again, taken that chance. You didn’t.”

_You left,_ he wants to say. _There was no chance there to take. You were gone. You don’t get to say that was my fault._ But this has already cut him up enough, and he can’t say it, can’t open this can of worms any wider than it’s already been opened. He’s not sure he can survive a conversation specifically about their divorce after all this. It was oh-so-amicable, everyone they knew said that – and although they might have hesitated if they’d seen what a mess Athos actually was at first, he’d hidden that quite well from most people, Anne included. His brother Thomas said they were dealing with it with admirable calm. Ninon called them very adult, very responsible. Aramis said sometimes things didn’t work out and the best thing to do was admit it. Porthos was the lone dissenter, disagreeing, saying living in denial wasn’t the same thing as being calm, avoiding speaking to your significant other wasn’t adult, and that sometimes things didn’t work out because you didn’t try to work them out. But even he’d stopped criticising eventually, after it became clear it wasn’t going to be fixed, that it was over, that it was done. They were done.

And then one day, she showed up at his door, and they weren’t.

She’s right and she’s wrong – the idea of finding someone who he can trust, someone who’ll never hurt him, is very attractive. But the idea of finding anyone who isn’t her leaves him cold. She’s the love of his life. For better or worse. Someone else would be a bigger lie than any she’s ever told. Maybe he is good at lying to himself, but he can’t imagine ever being that good at it.

“We’ve wandered a long way from the original point,” Anne says eventually, any vulnerability in her voice long gone, replaced by pure steel. By now, she’s moved so far away from him she’s in danger of falling off the bed – very undignified. She seems to realise that, so she sits up, starts to search for her clothes. Anything resembling cuddling is now over. “So you say you don’t want me to date Louis because it puts the movie at risk. Fine. I’ll make sure to wait for filming to wrap up before I do anything. Is that okay? Will that make you happy?”

He thinks he’s made it pretty clear that nothing about this makes him happy, but she’s no longer within reach, no longer pressed against his skin, and that makes him unhappier than anything else. “Fine,” he bites out the word. “Sounds great.”


	6. Week 5

It’s when he’s at the nearest shops buying a bottle of something extremely alcoholic that he spots the wall of chocolate on sale nearby.

It’s been a busy day so far and it looks like they’ll run even later than normal. Saturdays are always the least productive day of the week, for some reason, especially when the weather’s as lovely as it is today and everyone secretly just wants to ditch it and run off. Athos has been working since five in the morning, and Treville had basically ordered him to go spend an hour off set while he directed the next scene.

Anne and Louis have also been working all day – well, of course, they’re in nearly every scene – and while they’ve gotten more breaks, they’ve also been shorter breaks, so he knows Anne hasn’t had the opportunity to come and buy anything. And he was married to her long enough to recognise the meaning of the slight shadows under her eyes even the make-up department can’t hide, and the noticeably shorter temper she’s taking out on people, and the way she keeps twisting her body like every muscle is tense and sore.

One of the types on sale is her favourite chocolate, or at least her favourite out of what you can find in the average grocery store.

He throws it in the basket before he can think any more about it. But apparently he’s not done being stupid, because he also buys her preferred kind of sports drink, some other types of candy for her sweet tooth, and grabs a pack of ibuprofen as well just in case she’s run out.

After all, she brought him coffee this morning. It’s only fair.

He ignores the little voice in his head that points out there’s a significant difference between those two courtesies. It’s one thing to know how someone takes their coffee and get them some, and quite another to practically put together a care package to help a woman with menstrual cramps and cravings. The first is something any colleague or co-worker might do. The second? Not really. In fact, if he really were just a co-worker, it would probably be downright creepy that he knows exactly what she’ll want. Fuck, maybe it’s creepy anyway.

When he gets there, Treville has his face in his hand. He raises it as Athos coughs. “Oh, good, you’re back,” he says wearily. “We finished the scene, and I’ve given them a quarter of an hour off.”

“It took an hour?” It wasn’t _that_ long a scene.

“One of the set pieces fell down and hit Milady. She insisted on finishing the scene once we slapped a bandage on, but it kept us busy for a while. Aramis is checking her more thoroughly now just in case. What are the chances she’ll sue?”

“Given everything she’s signed to be allowed to do her own stunts, very low,” Athos reassures him, although he’s pretty sure if Anne figures out precisely which set designer was at fault she’ll do her damnedest to get him fired, at the very least. She doesn’t suffer incompetence well. In this case, though, she’d probably have a point. Actors shouldn’t be at risk from the scenery, especially in a talking scene. He lets concern seep into his voice as he asks, “How bad is it?”

“Go and see yourself,” Treville says, waving distractedly at the far end of the stage.

He passes d’Artagnan on the way, deep in furious argument with the construction coordinator, a man named Vadim. It doesn’t look like it’s going well. He considers getting involved, but d’Artagnan is good at his job, and he can manage on his own. Athos will be very surprised if anything else falls or breaks during the remainder of filming. Then he sees Anne.

She’s got her arm outstretched, Aramis peering at it, and Louis sitting next to her patting her other shoulder in a comforting fashion. For once, Louis touching Anne doesn’t make him furiously jealous, mainly because he can tell how little Anne is in the mood to be touched right now. Porthos completes the picture, leaning on a nearby wall and watching with his eyebrows raised. He’s the only one to notice Athos’s approach and gives him a crooked smile.

“I’m fine, Louis.” Anne is saying tiredly. She reaches up her free hand to clasp the one he’s patting her with in what looks like a grateful gesture, pulling it down so they’re holding hands for a moment, but then squeezes it briefly and lets go. Athos can’t help but admire the smoothness of the move – if you weren’t paying close attention, you’d never be able tell she was doing it purely to remove his hand from her. 

“I think you’re being very brave.” Louis looks like he’s working himself into an outrage. “But honestly, that was highly unsafe. What if it had hit one of our faces?”

“It didn’t, and I’m sure they’ll be more careful next time,” she says, in the cajoling tone people use with young children. While Louis’s anger is probably justified, Athos is grateful she’s cut him off before he works himself into a real temper – they don’t have time for one of Louis’s drawn out tantrums. They’re barely sticking to the schedule as it is. “You should get back to make-up. I think the next scene’s just you and not me – isn’t that right, Athos?”

Athos doesn’t jump. His ex-wife’s ability to sense his presence even when he’s directly behind her is well-established. “Yes, I think so,” he says instead. 

Louis’s scowl turns into an almost endearing pout. “You won’t have lunch with me, you won’t go out for drinks with me, and now you don’t even want me to sit with you… you’d almost think you don’t want me here at all, Milady.”

The pause that follows is just a bit too long.

“Well, this definitely doesn’t need stitches,” Aramis says cheerfully, his voice slightly too bright to cover up the awkward moment.

“I don’t understand you.” Now, Louis looks hurt, big brown eyes full of dismay. He changes expressions so quickly and suddenly, Athos can only suppose he really was born to be an actor. “We were getting along so well, and now it’s as if you don’t even like me. You do like me, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Anne says, giving him that killer smile of hers and peeping up at him through her eyelashes at the same time. It’s hard for anyone to stay angry at Anne when she does that. “I like you very much, Louis. It’s just like I told you, though – we need to concentrate on the film. I’m looking for a friendship right now, not anything more, and I don’t want to lead you on. Maybe we can consider meeting up for a coffee sometime when we’re back in the city, if neither of us are too busy?”

So she’s keeping to what she said about putting Louis off until after the film – or even longer, from the sound of it. Given all the hedging, he wonders if she may not be interested in Louis after all, and might just be trying to keep him placated. His spirits rise a bit at the thought. It occurs to him he’s never actually gotten confirmation from Anne that they were dating at all, he’d just assumed based on Louis’s behaviour they were. She’d mentioned him asking her to dinner, but nothing else. The comment about leading him on does strike Athos as a bit dishonest, though, because regardless of whether she’s interested in him she’s certainly poured the charm on since day one, probably at Richelieu’s urging.

“Fine,” Louis says petulantly, but gives in almost immediately and returns her smile with his own toothy one. “I suppose the anticipation will make it better. I’ve never waited so long for a date before. All this delayed gratification is heady stuff! I suppose it will make – everything – that much more fun, won’t it?”

The emphasis he puts on ‘everything’ makes it clear enough what he means, and he gives them a roguish wink as he leaves to make it even more obvious. Athos finds his nails cut into his palm around the handle of the carrier bag, and forces himself to loosen his grip.

“He’s a very sweet man,” Anne says to the ringing silence after Louis is gone, almost defiantly. Aramis, having thoroughly cleaned the long, wicked-looking scratch, now covers it up again with a clean bandage. He’s not just a certified first aid officer, he also worked as a paramedic for a few years when he was younger before he ended up in this business, so he’s very good at patching people up.

“Very,” Porthos agrees. “Shame about the rest, yeah?”

“Oh, shut up,” she says dismissively. “Like you’re such a prize.”

“I’m a wonder, in fact,” Porthos crosses his arms and gives her a grin. “You just can’t handle me, love.”

At that, she smiles again. She’s always liked Porthos. “All that raw, untamed manliness. It’s a terrifying thing to behold. And speaking of raw untamed manliness, was there something you wanted, Athos?”

“I… er…” he says, moving forward to pass what he’s holding to her, but stopping before he’s moved half a step as he wonders if he shouldn’t.

She spots the aborted motion, of course, and raises an eyebrow knowingly, holding out her hand. Uncertainly, he proffers the shopping bag, and she takes it.

He worried about it the whole back to the set, so much so that he seriously considered not giving her any of it, just stashing it and never saying a word. But the moment she peers inside, her slightly frazzled expression melts into a real smile again, and he feels relief flood through him that he hasn’t crossed a line.

“What is this, charity?” she asks teasingly. “Feeling sorry for me, Athos?”

“Think of it as hazard pay,” he says, a bit lamely. He sighs. “God, what a day.”

Aramis hooks a finger and peers into the shopping bag, then nods and says, “Ahhhh,” like this explains everything, though he thankfully doesn’t refer to Anne’s bad temper today or use the phrase ‘PMS’ because if he did he’d never make it out of here alive. Porthos steps forward to have a look too, and then raises his eyes to meet Athos’s, looking concerned.

“Don’t make me smack both of you,” she says threateningly. She pulls the bag away from them and stands up with a sigh. “I should get back to make-up as well.”

On her way out, she pauses by Athos for a moment, and leans forward to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. He suppresses a stupid smile, but can’t stop himself from flushing slightly. “Thank you,” she says. “It’s very thoughtful.”

The silence after she’s gone is even longer and more uncomfortable. Aramis breaks it with a low whistle.

“Be careful, my friend,” he advises, packing up his first aid kit and going to leave. “You know, that date with the make-up girl’s still up for grabs if you want it. She’s quite lovely.”

He shakes his head, and Aramis throws his hands up in the air in a helpless, what-can-you-do fashion and walks away too. Athos should get going as well. They all have things to do.

Porthos lingers for a moment longer anyway. “Aramis is right you know. You should be more careful.”

“I’m fine.”

“Maybe I’m not just worried about you.” Porthos meets his gaze steadily. “Not like you’re the only one who could get messed up here. I saw her afterwards, you know?”

Athos inhales his next breath a little too sharply. “What?”

“Milady. Anne. Whichever you want to call her. I went and checked on her a few times after the two of you broke up. She told me to stop, after a while, said you needed me and that she was fine. But she wasn’t. Any idiot could see that, and I’m not an idiot.” He shrugs. “Didn’t want to make it harder for her to move on, so I stopped coming when she asked. But I don’t think she’s gotten serious with anyone since then. I’m just saying, when you do shit like this, you’re confusing both of you, yeah? So… tread carefully.”

“It’s ten dollars worth of groceries. Guys like Louis buy her diamonds. She’s not confused,” he says, though for a moment he wants to tell Porthos everything, to say how badly he wishes she _was_ confused. To explain that he would give anything for a clear sign that she still has those kind of feelings for him. Instead, all she says is that she never wants that kind of relationship again, that their nights together are casual, that she likes her lifestyle now, that it was all a long time ago, that they’re better as friends, and especially better as friends with benefits.

“Uh huh, sure. Whatever you say. Just… think about what you’re doing.”

X_X_X_X_X

He expects her to leave while he’s showering – it’s pretty late, after all – so he’s surprised when he comes back out in a towel and instead, she’s perched on the gleaming hotel couch reading his book. She’s even got her reading glasses on, the ones that he finds adorable but she used to refuse to wear outside the house. Judging by her expression she doesn’t like what she’s reading much, though.

“I didn’t think it was that bad,” he comments, moving closer.

She jerks upright in a quick move, flushing slightly. She’s got her clothes on but not her shoes – she must have been nearly ready to leave when she spotted it and couldn’t resist, he guesses. Now that he’s near enough, he can see about where she was up to as she slams the book shut.

“Were you… reading just the ending?” he says, unable to suppress his amusement, lips quirking into a smile. “Hang on, is that how you always knew who did it in every detective novel Ninon sent? You cheated? My God, our whole lives together were a -” He cuts the sentence off, cursing himself silently, but it’s far too late. The air is suddenly heavy with unspoken emotion.

Anne already looked angry about something, but now her eyes darken with pain. “A lie?” She hurls the book at his chest hard and he catches it, nearly losing his towel. “God, you never can let anything go, can you?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, because it really had just been intended as a light joke, not another reference to the lie she told, the one that hurt his feelings so badly, the one that started the fight that somehow snowballed and just kept snowballing until it ended their marriage.

“And I wasn’t reading the ending, for the record. I was reading the delightful little message from Ninon.” Her face looks like she’s been chewing something sour.

He flips the book open to the end, mildly curious – Ninon writes her own opinion on the back page for him, but honestly, half the time he forgets to read it. Normally it’s a light critique of the sexism in the novel, with absolutely no attention paid to any problems with the writing due to classism, racism, homophobia, ableism, ageism, or, well, anything besides sexism. Ninon’s particular brand of feminism doesn’t really include or even recognise intersectionality. She prefers to focus on the only form of discrimination that personally affects her. Since Anne grew up extremely poor and low-class, in an entirely different world to Ninon, this has always been a point of contention between them.

And, yes, that’s what the message is this time as well, with the usual sign off down the bottom.

He looks at Anne in mute query, wondering what’s annoyed her so much this time.

“She’s just so… blatant,” Anne says, still with that biting-a-lemon expression. He must still look clueless, because she elaborates. “The note at the end about maybe ‘discussing the book over dinner sometime… and possibly more!’” She uses a tinkling little voice that Ninon would never employ, and finishes on a hushed, scandalised note that would make him laugh under other circumstances. “And then seven x’s. Seven.”

The penny drops. “You think she’s… what, asking me out?” She always finishes the message like that. He’d honestly thought it was just an affectation.

“More, Athos. What did you think ‘more’ meant in this context?”

“More… discussion?” he hazards. He’s never really questioned it. But now that she’s pointed it out, okay, he can see what she means. Fuck, he’s slow. It’s just that he’s never read the messages that closely. They’re all pretty similar, after all. “You really think she’s asking me out?”

Now, Anne laughs, though it’s still a little tight. “All these years and you still manage to be oblivious. She had a crush on you even while we were married, you know, and then after…”

“After?” he repeats, a bit dumbly. A thought occurs to him. He voices it before it also occurs to him that it’s a very arrogant thought. “Is that why you aren’t friends anymore?”

“We…” For a long moment, it doesn’t look like Anne’s going to reply. Then she says, expression pained, “A month or so after we divorced, she asked if it was okay to ask you out. Because, you know, it would be rude and probably anti-feminist to get together with a friend’s ex-husband without making sure it was alright. I said no.”

He blinks at her. A part of him wants to point out that as his ex-wife, she has no say in who he dates. But that would be hypocritical given his own behaviour and given how thrilled he is to hear that the idea bothered her. Besides, if one of his friends had come to him a month after their divorce and asked that, he would have punched them. Not that Aramis or Porthos would ever have been that stupid. His brother Thomas might have – he’d always had a thing for Anne, even though she disliked him intensely – but luckily by then he was living in another state, so it had never come up. Still, even for Ninon, that seems insensitive.

“She said fine, if that was how I felt, but then she just. Kept. Asking,” Anne says, frustration and embarrassment bleeding into her tone. “And I kept saying no, and then it was six months after the divorce and she wanted to ask you to this event that she was going to, and she informed me that I was being completely unreasonable and ridiculous and that she was asking you to go to it with her whatever I said. So we fought, and she said that it was no wonder -” She stops herself saying whatever it was, but from the expression on her face, it was something quite hurtful. “Anyway. That’s why we’re not friends anymore.”

“She didn’t ask me out,” he says, confused, though that’s probably not the message he should take from this. He’s just not sure how to deal with the rest of it. 

“That book awards ceremony. Black tie. You were in the papers.”

He opens his mouth to ask incredulously whether that was really a date, but then memories flash through his mind. Oh. Right. Ninon had tried to kiss him on the mouth at the end of the night, but he’d assumed she was aiming for his cheek and moved his head. Also, she’d been clingier than usual. He’d thought she was nervous about one of the awards. Anne’s right, he is oblivious. And he’d been very distracted at the time because…

It’s then that he makes another connection. “Six months after the divorce,” he says, echoing what she’d said earlier, it sliding into place in his mind. “That awards ceremony. Wasn’t that the same week you turned up at my place wearing only a coat and heels? In fact, wasn’t it the night before the book awards when you came over?”

“I…” she trails off, but he already knows the answer. Fuck, of course it was.

He can’t decide if he should be furious, flattered, or hopeful. On the one hand, she had no right to sleep with him purely to try and mess up a potential relationship with someone else. But on the other, God, it’s not like he wouldn’t do damn near anything to keep her away from other men if he could, and it warms him up to think that she still felt so strongly about him she couldn’t bear for him and Ninon to go on a single date. But couldn’t she just have told him that was how she felt? Not tried to manipulate him or mess with his head? 

“That’s fucked up,” he says bluntly, before he can stop himself. “You wanted to, what, stake your claim? You didn’t want any claim on me. You didn’t want _me_.” 

“Sure, Athos, let’s keep pretending _I_ left _you_ ,” Anne says with surprising bitterness.

“You _did_ leave me,” he says, because he can remember it distinctly. It’s hard to forget your heart being squeezed to bloody pulp. “I was off shooting a movie and when I got back you’d moved out.”

“That’s a gross oversimplification of what happened,” Anne snaps. “Me being the first one to admit it was over doesn’t mean I’m the one who ended it. As if you wouldn’t have left me anyway. Hell, you practically had already left me. You didn’t speak a word to me for over two weeks except to take shots and then you unexpectedly took a job in another continent. And do you remember what you said to me when you told me you were going?”

“No,” he lies, because his eyes are already stinging and he doesn’t think he can go through this again.

She has no mercy, though, and continues. “I said, I’ll call you, we need to talk about this, we need to work through it. And you said not to bother calling, that there wasn’t anything I could say that would help, that you weren’t sure if you’d believe anything I said anyway. You said you couldn’t trust me, and that meant you couldn’t be with me either.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s exactly what you said,” she says coldly.

“I said I couldn’t trust you _right now_ , couldn’t be with you _right now_ ,” he says. He thinks that’s what he said, anyway. It’s what he was trying to say. “I didn’t mean I couldn’t be _with_ you, with you. I meant I couldn’t be around you. I meant I needed time – time to figure out how to deal with it, time to get used to the idea that our marriage was based on a lie.”

“Funny, I thought it was based on being madly in love with each other.”

“For fuck’s sake, Anne, that’s not -” he cuts himself off with a frustrated gesture. “You _lied_ to me. You said you didn’t know who I was, that you didn’t care about my contacts in the industry, and then I found out you set up our whole first meeting. You played me. You were _using_ me.”

“Only at first,” she flares up. “You know damn well I was crazy about you by the time we married. Hell, even by the time we got engaged.”

“That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. Do you know how many people in this business have tried to use me for my family? Do you know how many actresses have hit on me just for my name and connections?”

“I’m willing to bet it’s not half as many as you believe,” Anne says. “Not even the stupidest woman in the world would look at you and go ‘ugh, the only thing he’s got going for him is his name and connections’. I certainly didn’t think that. Yes, I didn’t tell you I knew who you were already, or that I thought you might help my career. But at the time I had no way of knowing it was such a sore spot – and I definitely had no way of knowing we’d fall for each other so fast. And once we did, how the hell was I supposed to tell you I’d lied? It was such a small lie, anyway, in light of everything else.” 

“I felt used,” Athos says simply. “I felt betrayed. I was angry, and hurt, and yes, I said some things that I probably shouldn’t have. But I never wanted you to _leave_. I needed time on my own to lick my wounds, that’s all. But then I came back and you’d moved out.”

“So you served me with divorce papers.”

“It seemed like the right thing to do,” he says, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture. “I thought it was what you wanted. I mean, you moved out, you signed a lease on your own place, you separated our accounts, you didn’t contact me, and what with how angry you were when we parted…”

“I was pissed off because you said we _couldn’t_ sort things out! What part of ‘I want us to work through this’ got translated to ‘divorce me’ in your head?” She turns away like she can’t bear to look at him.

“You _left_ ,” he repeats to the back of her head. “I thought you must have decided it wasn’t worth trying to salvage our relationship, that it was too much effort, and what with how we were those last couple of weeks – how I was – and then with me taking off for months without even warning you – well, I couldn’t blame you.”

They were so _happy_ , until suddenly they weren’t. They’d both been overseas or out of the state on work almost more often than they were home, so it wasn’t like their relationship hadn’t ever had challenges, but feeling that overwhelming storm of hurt and fury around her had been new. Them arguing had been new as well. They’d never even really had more than a minor disagreement before, and so the two of them tearing shreds off each other like that had been a huge shock, one they weren’t quite equipped to manage. He’d taken off to deal with his feelings on his own because he didn’t want to keep taking them out on her. The abrupt change from marital bliss to marital strife had felt like the sky falling down to him, their happy little bubble being popped – and so yes, he’d assumed it really had ended for good when he got back and she wasn’t right where he’d left her, wasn’t waiting and willing to continue trying to fix things with his now-much-calmer self. It had made sense to him that she would want to go find something easier instead of put in the effort to fix something broken.

It hadn’t seemed that strange, not when he really thought about it. He’d always been amazed she fell in love with him at all, and he’d just found out that some of her motivations for dating him in the beginning weren’t exactly kosher, so it was reasonable to him that she’d fall out of love after two weeks of screaming arguments followed by two months of radio silence. Who would put up with that? Especially a woman like Anne, so intelligent, so exceptional, so exquisite that she really could have anyone.

It’s heartbreaking to imagine that all she was waiting for was a sign from him that he wanted her to come back.

“It’s all ancient history now,” she says tightly, turning to face him again. “What is it about this place that has us over-sharing about everything?”

“Is that so bad?” It’s not pleasant, certainly, but it does give him the feeling that they’re finally getting somewhere. Like after all this time, she’s finally opening up to him again, telling him real things, even if they’re uncomfortable to hear.

“It… blurs lines.” It looks like it takes real effort to relax her expression, and there’s still a tenseness to her. “Maybe it’s that this place is neutral ground. A hotel. Nowhere with history. It’s not like when we’re at home -” she cuts herself off, but it’s too late, and ironically cutting the sentence short only serves to confirm her meaning. Without her self-consciousness, it could have been just a reference to the city they share, but clearly, that’s not what she was saying.

It’s not like a blow – it’s more like inhaling much too quickly while smoking, lungs and airway suddenly burning, eyes watering. The apartment he still lives in will always be that to him – their home. It’s not a shrine to her, not at all. She took most of her things when she left, and Porthos removed the rest once it became clear she wasn’t coming back, and so a stranger looking at it would be probably never even realise a woman had lived there once. But that doesn’t mean that there’s a single square foot of the place that doesn’t have a hundred memories of her attached. He plays them through his mind on loop every day, like the clips of her old parts, like home videos he never made and really should have. A smarter man would have moved out, moved on. He’s not that smart.

“The city,” she amends it to, shooting him a look that dares him to comment on that. 

She’s probably right that the lack of attached memories makes the hotel easier to deal with in some ways. If they lay in bed together and talked in their old place, it would be almost like they were married again, curled around each other, cuddling, sharing every moment of their day. They’d be playing out an old scene from a time when they were happy, and the difference in context between the two moments would sting. Here, it’s a hotel room, generic and bland by design. They could be any two people in the world. That they just happen to be ones with a failed marriage and a mountain of baggage is irrelevant.

Or maybe it’s just that they’ve been spending every day together. Days littered with casual, little encounters – offering a coffee, discussing the shooting schedule, rolling their eyes at each other, sharing a grin at a private joke, arguing about a dialogue choice. Apart from the things they say in bed, which hardly count, they haven’t really spoken in a long time. When they only share a few, brief sentences once a week, and those sentences are short, matter-of-fact exchanges of necessary facts, it’s easy for every word exchanged outside of the bedroom to suddenly seem weighted and significant. But talking every day makes it impossible to treat their conversations that seriously, and that makes it easier to speak more, and ironically, that seems to lead to more serious conversations.

“It’ll be a relief to get back,” she says now.

Back to once a week? Back to pretending that they’re two strangers who just happen to know every inch of each other’s body, who’ve learnt each other’s expressions by heart, who once slept twined around each other like vines around a tree?

That won’t be a relief. It will be like losing her all over again. And if this movie does well, what then? He’s Treville’s favourite director, she’s Richelieu’s favourite actress, and he suspects the only reason they haven’t been asked to work on the same film together before is that everyone was worried about them behaving unprofessionally. Now that Treville and Richelieu know they can handle it, they’ll expect them to work together again. And what then? Will every movie be like this, a painful no man’s land between who they were and who they are now? Will they grow closer each time only for her to ruthlessly force their relationship back to its assigned place in her life once they get back to the city? He’s not sure he can live through that once, let alone repeatedly. It’s not a pattern they can play out forever.

“Athos?” She’s looking at him, now. He sees the uncertainty in the slight furrowing of her eyebrows, the concern in the set of her mouth. He sees it, but like always, knowing her surface emotions can’t tell him the deeper reasons behind them. What does she _want_ from him? “Won’t it be a relief? You must be sick of this movie by now.”

The movie’s plot isn’t great. The writing’s irritating. Louis’s a pain. The timeframe is frantic. The town has no decent coffee. These conversations are killing him, every time.

He wishes it would never end.

Nevertheless, he shrugs, and her expression empties, any uncertainty disappearing.


	7. Wrap Up

Thursday’s the last day of filming, or at least the last full day. None of the core people are flying out until Sunday, just in case a few last minute scenes need to be added or re-shot, but for the most part shooting is finally over. He’ll spend a while helping with post production, but that won’t be here – they’ll all return to the city and their normal lives, for the most part.

“You’re coming out and celebrating with us, right?” d’Artagnan says hopefully. They’re on lunch break right now, but that’ll be over shortly, and then they’ll be on the very final scene.

“The official wrap party’s tomorrow.”

“Yes, but that’s no reason not to start celebrating now!”

“It’s a Thursday -” Athos says, rather weakly.

“I can’t believe you’ve expanded that insane rule to cover when you’re on location as well.” Aramis looks disapproving, but his eyes twinkle anyway. “You must have finished every book you brought by now, surely. Come on, Athos, live a little! How many years has it been since you’ve gotten drunk in the afternoon?”

That’s a bad question to ask a man who lives on the edge of alcoholism half the time, and Aramis seems to realise that moments later.

“The afternoon?” Athos asks, to end the awkward silence. “Why the afternoon?”

“You said we’re finishing up in an hour, right?” d’Artagnan says. “So why wait? Sure, three o’clock’s a little early to go to a bar, but I think at this point we’ve earned it. Even Treville’s coming. Actually, as far as I know everyone besides Richelieu is.”

Three o’clock… with the way his friends throw down drinks when they’re celebrating, half the cast and crew will have passed out by seven then. He can go out with them all, pace his drinking carefully, and then he and Anne can head back to his room whenever she looks amenable. And until then, he’ll get to spend time with his friends. He might not want to celebrate the ending of this, but they do, and for once he shouldn’t rain on their parade.

“Sure, why not,” Athos says, before he can second-guess himself.

“Athos?” Anne says from behind him, as if she’s summoned by his thoughts – but that’s confirmation bias at it’s finest, because when _isn’t_ he thinking about her?

He turns, and she’s wearing that damn dress again. He thinks they’ve tightened the corset even further. No matter what they do in post-production, Louis’s character’s going to end up looking like he has neck problems, given how many scenes he’s spent staring down at her cleavage. “Yes?”

“Could I talk to you for a second while you’re free? I just have a couple of questions for the last scene.”

Aramis rolls his eyes at them both – he thinks the two of them spend far too much of their very-limited spare time discussing character motivations and the right way to act out each little moment. Given the overall quality of the film, Athos can see his point. Still, if he could, he’d spend every lunch break with Anne discussing the minutiae of expression and tone, so he shrugs and follows her.

To his surprise, she leads him to Treville and Richelieu’s office, which is empty right now. “Are we stealing whiskey again?” he asks mildly. “You know everyone’s going to the bar later anyway.”

“It was borrowing,” she says, with a flicker of amusement. “And no, ‘everyone’ is not. Richelieu wants to go through some contract issues with me. He thinks there might end up being a sequel film and wants to confirm the details so he can make sure I have to show up if that happens.”

He’d be hurt that Richelieu didn’t want to nail him in as well, if he cared much what Richelieu thought about him. Of course, if there does end up being a sequel, Treville will just send d’Artagnan to make puppy-dog eyes at him again. Hopefully it’ll be earlier next time, so that as well as being director, he can act as an actual writer for the movie instead of just a script doctor.

Then he realizes why she’s telling him. “And that’s likely to… go late?” She could have texted that. Unless watching his face fall in person is more enjoyable for her somehow.

“I don’t know. I’ll turn up when I can.” She studies his face, looking for something. She has that searching look to her again, as if his thoughts are very important, as if she wishes she could read his mind the way he so often wishes he could read hers. “Are you all right? You look unhappy. About more than the idea of a slightly late night, I mean. Are you upset about the movie ending after all?”

“I’ll miss everyone, that’s all,” he says, a bit guardedly. “Porthos, Aramis, d’Artagnan, Treville… you…”

“We all live within an hour’s drive of you,” she points out.

“Yes, but that’s different. Everyone’s so busy.” He knows that’s a weak reason, given how busy they’ve been lately, but here they’re busy working with each other, and that makes a huge difference. As stressful as directing is, sometimes it’s much less stressful than staring at his laptop and drinking straight from a bottle of whiskey, desperately trying to wring inspiration for the next line out of his dehydrated brain.

“I’ll miss you too,” she says, so quickly and quietly he nearly doesn’t realise she’s said it all. When he does, he has to suppress a grin of pure elation.

“Well,” he manages. “You… I mean, I hope you know… we could always see each other more often. If you wanted to maybe turn up on a night that isn’t Thursday sometime, I’m normally free.” Despite the stuttering, he thinks he’s played it right for a moment – just casual enough not to seem like he’s desperate for any attention she’s willing to spare. Then he sees her expression.

“Right,” she says, voice tight. She looks offended, and strangely, almost hurt. He came too close to crossing a line again, he supposes, but what’s he supposed to do?

Even though this isn’t exactly promising, he goes for broke. “Or we could even get coffee sometime. Talk about what we’re up to.”

To his surprise, this goes down better. A smile lights up her face, and she leans into him a bit. “Coffee, hmm? In the daytime? In public, even?”

“I’ve noticed that you drink it sometimes. As in constantly.”

“I need the caffeine, what with my slave-driver of an ex-husband making me work fourteen hour days or more all the time.” She shakes her head, as if disappointed in him, but she’s still smiling. “It would be awful to use up all my energy at work, and have none left over for… other activities.” She reaches out a hand and removes a bit of lint of his shirt, and then playfully runs her fingers down his chest, catching her index finger on every button.

In an act which seems greatly daring to him, he catches her hand and brings it to his lips. It feels oddly appropriate, with her dressed like that. Then he glances down and once again gets distracted by her cleavage.

She laughs. “How long until our lunch break is over, slave-driver?”

He looks at his watch. “Ten minutes.”

“That’s enough. Does this door have a lock?”

“No, it doesn’t,” he says, mouth starting to go dry.

“Even better,” she murmurs, and kisses him.

It starts out open-mouthed and hot, and only gets hotter – in seconds, he has her pushed up against the spindly desk, devouring her mouth, one hand buried in her hair and the other at her waist. She moves her hand to his pants zipper and tugs it down, then slides her hand in and starts pumping him. She doesn’t bother to toy with him, just fists him tightly and works him up quickly, ruthlessly forcing him to edge. He gasps against her mouth, half blind with need, but manages to finally force out the words that drift somewhere in his currently-disconnected mind.

“It’s not… seven o’clock.”

She lets go of him and pulls back a little, out of his embrace. In the frantic make-out session, he’d pulled down the bodice of her dress a little, and she tugs it up, trying to hide warm curves away from his gaze. “Right,” she says, a little coolly. “Sorry.”

“That’s not – I didn’t mean no,” he hastens to explain, still half-dizzy and hard. “It’s just that -” Just that it’s not usual. Just that he wants to know what it means. What are the rules now? Or don’t they have them anymore? And if they don’t have rules anymore, what _are_ they? Instead of voicing this, he pulls her close again, kisses her hard, and then moves his mouth to her ear to murmur, “Anytime you want to do this, it’s fine by me. I was just surprised.”

“Oh,” she says, only that, but in a split second her mouth is hard and passionate on his again, and she’s pressing all those glorious curves against him warmly. Then, before he can stop her, she pushes him back a few steps and slides to her knees. Looking down, all her can see is the dark curls of her hair and the smooth expanse of her chest, but then she looks up at him as she tugs his pants and boxers down a little and frees him to her gaze. She’s smiling. It’s distinctly smug.

“You don’t have to – we could -”

“Only a few minutes left until we have work,” she says primly, her tone greatly at odds with her position on her knees and the mischief in her eyes. “But I’m excellent at working within deadlines, haven’t you noticed that?” With her eyes still fixed on him, she slowly licks down his length, and he groans at the feel of it.

She works him expertly and confidently, sucking him just ruthlessly enough, driving him wild with flicks of her tongue, working her hand and fingers against him dextrously as a complement to her mouth. When she lets a finger squirm its way further back, probing a particularly sensitive area, just as she gives a fierce, long suck, he has to muffle his groan against his sleeve. Jesus Christ, she knows his body better than he does.

He tries to pull her away when he’s about to come because he’s polite that way, although it’s not like he has a tissue or anything handy, but she just rolls her eyes at him and continues her greedy sucking and he gives in with inward relief. His whole body shudders as he comes, jerking against her mouth, wild gaze fixed on the sight of her – her wicked green eyes staring at him, her lips stretched around him, her mouth sucking hungrily at him, the pale curves of her breasts, her nimbus of curly dark hair spread around her face like a halo. And then his eyes slam shut as it all gets to be too much, and there’s only the feel of her, smashing him into little pieces in the most pleasurable way possible.

“No, really,” he wheezes once he’s recovered enough. She’s straightened up again and is surveying him with smug amusement, looking far too pleased with herself. “ _Anytime_. If I say no, take it as proof of bodysnatching aliens or something. My God.”

“Hmm, sure, I’ll make a note of it. If Athos turns down a blowjob, he’s probably already dead.” She mimes writing something down on his chest teasingly.

“If Athos turns _you_ down,” he corrects, and pulls her closer to him again. “The blowjob’s optional.”

She freezes for a moment against him, and then gives him a slightly shaky smile. For a second he thinks her eyes are a little glassy, almost as if she’s about to cry, and brushes his fingers against her cheek in open concern. “Sometimes you can be unexpectedly charming, you know that?”

“It’s all in the timing,” he says, heart lightening as her smile widens.

“I’ve always thought so.” She leans on him for a moment with a happy sigh, then straightens again, pulling away from him. “I’d better go fix myself up, and maybe brush my teeth. You can pay me back later, and believe me, I _will_ expect payback. Assuming Armand doesn’t keep me talking salary provisions until midnight, anyway.”

He watches her leave, feeling absurdly happy. Are they… are they getting somewhere? Is this it? Are they finally working things out? He hasn’t had so much hope in years. He feels young, nervous, exhilarated – and late. Definitely late. Shit. He straightens and cleans himself up as best he can, and tries to stop the dopey, sated grin he knows is a giveaway.

And then he goes back to work.

X_X_X_X_X

“I’m just saying,” Porthos says with drunken dignity. “Wouldn’t hurt if people let _me_ be the one to say ‘it’s a wrap’ sometimes. Sometimes I just feel sort of sidelined.”

Athos smothers a smile against the rim of his glass, and takes another sip. His friends might not be quite a drunk as he expected them to be by this point, but they’re certainly not sober. He isn’t, either, but he’s closer to ‘slightly tipsy’ than ‘falling down drunk’ – partly because he’s been endeavouring to avoid that level of drunkenness, and partly because he has much better alcohol tolerance than most people.

“I’m gonna be broke if we keep buying drinks here.” D’Artagnan sounds resigned to this, but then brightens up as something occurs to him. “We should go buy a couple of bottles instead and go back to one of our rooms to drink, it’ll be cheaper.”

“It’s a small town,” Aramis reminds him. “Stores close at six.” It’s quarter past now.

“Athos, you have booze, right?” d’Artagnan asks. 

It’s also not a very tactful question to ask an alcoholic, however high-functioning they are, but he’s been doing so much better these days that it doesn’t bother him at all. “Yes, of course. Want me to run up and grab a few bottles?”

He can get his phone at the same time, since he left it charging in his room. Anne probably won’t join him until much later, from the sound of it, so he may as well continue to hang out with the others and wait for her text before politely excusing himself. That sounds better than working himself into a panic as he waits for her. He doesn’t normally feel this almost sickening level of anxiety, but then, they don’t normally have these long conversations, and he’s never worked up the courage before to ask her if she wants to try again, not in so many words. Tonight, he’s going to. Their conversation earlier gave him enough hope that he’s willing to finally put it all on the table. But for some reason, he thinks it will go better if he asks her here, in a place that isn’t filled with memories of their marriage and how badly it ended.

“We’ll help get them,” Porthos declares tipsily. “All for one…”

“And one for all!”

Athos shrugs and lets them trail in his wake, but when they’re standing outside the door he feels a sudden surge of concern. No one besides Anne has been inside his hotel room. He tries to remember if there’s any proof she’s been there – a hair tie, a lipstick-stained wineglass, an earring – but he can’t remember off the top of his head. He’s not sure why it matters if they know, but somehow it does. If she says no… well, then it’s better they don’t know any of it.

“Let me go in and clean up first,” he says, loud enough to be heard over Aramis and Porthos’s argument about which of them is a better judge of character. They immediately launch into exclaiming that it could hardly be that bad and of course they don’t care anyway. “No, no, come on -”

He’s forced to give in after a little while, though, since it’s more suspicious to keep arguing, and they’re drunk enough that they’re not being deliberately difficult, just overly effusive and helpful. With a sigh he opens the door and they all crowd in.

“Fancy,” Porthos observes. “Why haven’t we been drinking here?”

“Yeah.” D’Artagnan collapses on the couch. “Actually, why don’t we do this all the time? Tell me this isn’t better than spending your Thursdays alone ‘reading’, Athos. We should do this every week!”

“No.” Despite his stern denial, Athos grabs the bottles for them and pours everyone a drink, figuring they have enough time for at least one. Then he referees a long discussion about who’s the most coordinated out of them while drunk, pours them all another, and downs one himself just for good measure. Then they start marvelling at how much better his room is than all of theirs.

While they’re occupied by that, Athos heads to the charger in the bathroom to retrieve his phone. They can continue to make themselves comfortable while he does that, he figures. When he turns it on, a message flashes up – Anne, saying she’ll be here in ten. Sent more than half an hour ago.

_What?_ he thinks. It’s before seven and she said she’d be late. God, apparently they are just giving up on rules, which is excellent in the general sense but panic-inducing in this particular moment. And where the hell is she, then? He calms down a little as he realizes she must have knocked, gotten no response, and gone back to her own room. After all, she can’t even get into this place. He can text her back and…

…and is that the top and leggings she was wearing earlier before wardrobe put her in the period dress? Yes, yes it is. On his floor.

He blinks at it, then groans and closes his eyes for a moment, not even remotely sure how to respond to this. With one eye on the others, he rolls them up into a ball and places them in the top drawer, which is neat but not especially helpful. But where the hell is she? Okay, so if she’s inside the room, she heard them arguing for a while outside the door and remembered he didn’t want the others to know about their meetings, so perhaps she hid. But she’s not in the little bathroom, or in the main area, and it’s not like there’s any other rooms. And apparently she’s _naked_ , or at least not wearing much, and it’s not like there’s even windows to –

“You even have somewhere to hang up coats,” Aramis is saying to him from the other end of the room, voice full of the kind of innocent wonderment people only have when they’re truly soused. He tries to yank the wardrobe open. “Except that it sticks.”

“No, wait -” Athos starts to say, just as Anne gives in and lets go of the door, and just as Aramis gives it a mighty tug.

The door flies open suddenly and Aramis flies backwards, tripping over the couch and knocking d’Artagnan over as well. Meanwhile, Anne is standing very visibly in the wardrobe, cheeks stained bright red, wearing blue lingerie and with an open bottle of wine in one hand. Porthos makes a noise of absolute surprise, Aramis is still trying to stagger upright again, and d’Artagnan’s desperately trying to keep more of the booze from spilling than has already. 

Once the chaos has died down a little, they all stare at each other.

It may be the most truly awkward scene of Athos’s life, and there’s some stiff competition there.

After a long, long moment, when everyone’s stared at Anne, stared at Athos, and moved back to staring at Anne again, Porthos clears his throat and asks reasonably, “Why’re you hiding in the wardrobe?”

Anne meets his gaze for an embarrassed second, then rolls her gaze to the ceiling, apparently contemplating the absurdity of her current situation. She makes no effort to cover herself, but also doesn’t look like she’s planning to flee. “Do you know, I’ve been asking myself that same question?”

“You don’t want to question the – well, _that_?” d’Artagnan says incredulously to Porthos, his horrified hand gesture encompassing basically all of Anne’s unclothed body.

“There aren’t actually any coats in here,” Anne says, in tones of utmost reason. “If there was, trust me, I would have put one on.”

“You grabbed wine instead of clothing?” Aramis asks, somewhere between horrified and greatly amused.

“I stand by that decision,” Anne says, taking a hefty gulp straight from the bottle to back up this assertion. “When you’re questioning your life choices as much as I’ve been doing for the past twenty minutes, alcohol’s a necessity. Athos, could you pass me my clothes, please? Thank you.”

She doesn’t bother to head into the bathroom, just pulls the leggings and top on in front of them. Four pairs of eyes watch as smooth, creamy flesh and skimpy blue lace gradually disappears behind leggings and top. Normally, Athos would snap at the others to look away, but there’s nothing lecherous in their gazes – they just look stunned.

“I’ll… see you out,” Athos says after she’s dressed, more to break the awkward silence than anything else.

D’Artagnan, who’s been studying them, mind churning through facts at a slower pace than usual thanks to the many drinks he’s had, suddenly chokes. “Thursdays. Thursdays! _This_ is what you do on Thursdays?”

Athos stares at him for a moment, then closes his eyes again. “We’ll… we’ll talk about this later.” He turns and goes to the door, holding it open for Anne as she walks out.

“It was lovely to see you boys,” she says dryly as she exits.

“It was lovely to see you as well,” Aramis says, still looking mildly stunned. “I’m not sure how I feel about seeing so _much_ of you, though.”

“Do your best to forget it,” Athos advises, aware his voice comes out dangerously low. He follows Anne into the hallway, closing the door gently behind him.

She’s still holding the bottle of wine, and takes another gulp from it. “If I come up with good enough blackmail material, do you think I can persuade them never to mention this again? I don’t know what I was thinking. I just heard you, and, well -”

“I appreciate the thought,” he says. “How the hell did you even get in my room?”

She blinks at him. “I have a keycard.”

“ _I_ have the keycard.”

“Well, yes, they do give you two,” she says with slight exasperation. “You left one out on the table that first week. I just figured – I mean, you did the same thing with the key to our – with the key to your apartment. Don’t you remember?”

He had done that, years ago, so he supposes he can’t fault her for assuming he was being consistent. Still, he lets out a low noise of embarrassment and rubs his hand against his eyes. The others are never going to let him live this down. Worse, they’re going to be so _concerned_ , now that d’Artagnan’s added two and two and made four. “What am I going to tell them?” he says out loud without meaning to. It’s a real question, though. He doesn’t know what he and Anne are, right now, where they are.

“They’re all fucking adults,” she says, and now her exasperation is more than slight. “I’m sure they’ve filled in most of the blanks themselves.”

“They’ll be concerned, disappointed even,” he tries to explain. “I mean, after everything -”

Her expression cools slightly. “Just tell them the truth, then. That it’s meaningless.”

She keeps talking, but there’s a buzzing noise in his ears and he can’t hear it.

She’s called what they do casual before, she’s referred to them as friends with benefits, or even just as exes with benefits. She’s said no strings attached. But she’s never used the word _meaningless_ before. _Meaningless_. Suddenly, he sees this the way she must see it, the way she must always have seen it. He hadn’t realised before that despite all his denials to himself, despite his insistence that he knew exactly what they were doing, deep down he’d still seen this as important somehow. Oh, he wasn’t her husband anymore or even her boyfriend, but he’d still assumed he _mattered_. That this mattered. It wasn’t just scratching some itch. It was more than that – it had to be more, when he knew every expression that crossed her face and every inch of her body, when it seemed they could almost read each other’s mind sometimes, when she gave him long, slow, sweet kisses as they lay in the afterglow, skin pressed against skin. 

Meaningless.

She often takes his breath away, in one way or another. But this, right here? This is a feeling he’s only had once before in his life. It’s the feeling of his heart slowly, brutally being ripped in two. Being with him is meaningless to her. Their time together is meaningless. Earlier, she wasn’t agreeing to go on a date with him – and he realises now that that’s literally true, she hadn’t agreed, she’d just said _coffee, hmm_ , hedging and playing along just like with Louis. Hell, even with Louis she’d at least seemed to agree. Her smile had been at a compliment, nothing more and nothing less, or maybe at the high of an illicit rendezvous. Everything they’ve done together seems abruptly more vulgar and humiliating, it’s never been about holding onto the last vestiges of their closeness, never been about the memory of love, it’s just been her version of stress relief. And he can’t even blame her, because clearly she thinks he’s on the same page with this.

He remembers the last time he felt this way. He got home from abroad, terrified and exhilarated at once at the idea of seeing her again, and then he walked into their apartment and half the furniture was missing. For a moment he’d wondered if they’d been robbed, and then it had twigged. He’d called around to their friends, stunned and lost: _excuse me, do you know where my wife is? What she’s doing? Oh? Is that right?_ And then, heart breaking but prepared to do the right thing, he’d called a divorce lawyer. He’d been too stunned to even really recognise the judgment in the woman’s voice when he said, _no, I don’t know when she moved out, I was away you see and I hadn’t called for a couple of months_. It had come back to him later, though, along with the rest of it, hindsight adding the crushing weight of shame and embarrassment to his raw grief.

“Athos?” She’s looking at him now, lively concern in her green eyes. “Are you all right? Do you need a minute? God, this isn’t exactly the end of the world.”

“I _will_ tell them the truth,” he says. He manages to choke down his pain, and he thinks his voice comes out fairly even, but by her expression it’s not making her worry less. “I’ll tell them the truth. That this, that it’s – that it’s over.”

“You – what?” Confusion spreads across her face, followed quickly by something like hurt.

“It’s over,” he repeats. He’s sure now that he sounds unnecessarily curt, anger at himself and the stabbing pain in his heart making his voice hard. He needs to stop talking to her, because if he stays here, he’ll pull her back into his arms, even though he knows better. Thoughts of her disarm him – not just thoughts of her flushed and wanting, but thoughts of her smiling, smirking, rolling her eyes at him, frowning in concentration, wrinkling her nose, tilting her head, making a snarky comment, cupping his cheek, laughing at a joke. If he lets them into his head, he’ll never end this, he’ll keep it going until he really is eighty just to see her once a week, in any capacity he can get her. And that really will destroy him. “It’s done. You need to go, Anne.”

“Athos?”

“Don’t come to my place next week,” he says. “Mail back the key, or keep it, I don’t care. I just – I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.” He turns and walks away, leaving her stunned and staring after him.

“What? Just because -” she starts to say furiously, but he’s already through the door.

It looks like he and Anne were quiet enough that his friends didn’t hear that, at least. The mood in here is still convivial, even if his own mood has never been worse. He settles on the couch next to Aramis, feeling numb, staring at the bottle of whiskey on the little table.

“All these Thursdays and we never had a clue,” Aramis marvels, holding up his glass in a toast. “I’m not sure if I should be saying ‘way to go, you dog’ or redoubling my efforts to find you a date. We need to have a long talk about this once I sober up. Once we all sober up.”

“How long _has_ this been going on?” d’Artagnan asks. He still looks very drunk. “I can’t believe she was just hanging around here wearing basically nothing, waiting for you. And when she just – God, I couldn’t believe it when he opened the door and she was just standing in the closet like that. It was like we were being Punk’d or something.”

“Shit,” Porthos says, able to look more closely at his face than the other two from his position across from Athos. “Shit, Athos, what happened?”

“Pass me the whiskey,” he says instead of answering, voice hollow.

He can’t believe how happy he was earlier, not because they were finally finished with shooting this movie, but because he thought he was finally moving on with his life. Well, they finished filming, but that wasn’t the only thing that finished. He can’t celebrate, but he can at least get very, very drunk.


	8. The Press Junket

It’s the ringing of the phone that wakes him, although to tell the truth, it’s been ringing on and off for hours – this is just the first time he doesn’t wrap the pillow around his head and ignore it until it stops. The noise of it ringing feels like taking a buzzsaw to his head, what with how hungover he is.

It’s not the same hangover as the one he had the day after he ended things with Anne, but it might as well be. He’s been either drunk or hungover since then. He’s reconsidering his belief that seeing her once a week was unhealthy, because he’s not sure anything could be as unhealthy as the past three months of near-constant drinking caused by not seeing her at all. Well, except for on the front of magazines, which hits him as hard as it ever has – especially the picture of Louis’s arm around her, grinning together at some party about a month ago.

She left the set the morning after he ended it, claiming to have personal business to attend to, and flew back to the city they share, and he hasn’t seen her since. Hasn’t heard from her either. He expected her to turn up, that first Thursday, even though he’d ordered her not to. Surely she’d want to talk? Even if she didn’t want to talk, he’d wondered if she would show up in just a coat again, with the view of seducing him out of (what must seem to her like) an unreasonable temper tantrum. She hadn’t, though. No texts, no calls, no visits – she’s disappeared from his life as thoroughly as she did for those first six months after they’d divorced, and he’d forgotten how empty his world is without her presence. Whiskey does a poor job of filling the hole.

Athos staggers upright and manages to grab his phone this time before the ringing stops. “Hello?”

“It’s my fault,” Aramis says, sounding genuinely upset. “I know you must be trying to figure out what happened, and you need to know – the thing is, I fired Marsac. I had to fire Marsac, he nearly seriously hurt someone on the film we’re working on, I didn’t have a choice. But I didn’t realise he had those photos, or that when I fired him he’d have no reason not to _use_ those photos anymore. If I had, I would’ve warned you.”

Athos listens dully, then after Aramis stops talking, runs the words through his mind again just in case that will help make them comprehensible. It doesn’t. “Aramis, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh. Shit. Alright, turn on the TV.”

He does. “Okay, now I’m watching a re-run of Friends. Was this supposed to accomplish something?”

“Huh,” Aramis says. “All right, I accept that plan made no sense. But it always works in movies!”

“You’re a stunt co-ordinator, you should absolutely know the difference between movies and real life.” He pulls open his laptop, types his own name in, and clicks news, because he’s not stupid. Apparently, some photos of him or someone he cares about are making headlines, although he’s amazed that Aramis thinks anything in his life is likely to be seen as breaking news by a TV station. “My God.”

The street was dark, but not dark enough. It’s immediately apparent what they’re doing. Thankfully, the photos were taken from his left side, meaning that the location of his right hand (down the front of her jeans, from memory) isn’t visible, but all that does is make the photos technically not R-rated. The way they’re kissing, the way she’s writhing against him, the look on her face in one photo as she turns her head to the side – God, it doesn’t matter that no one knows he has his fingers inside her, because even with them fully clothed, the pictures look like porn. The headlines gleefully point this out.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he says, long and slow. She even pointed out it was a bad idea at the time, but he’d been jealous, and she’d been so close... “Aramis, I’m going to have to call you back.”

He looks at his phone. Four missed calls from Treville, two from d’Artagnan, one from Aramis, one from Porthos, none from Anne. He calls Treville.

“Do you know how unprofessionally you’ve behaved?” Treville says, the moment he answers the phone, not bothering with greetings.

“I… have a fair idea, yes. Sorry.”

“Get in here, now. We need to talk to you both.”

X_X_X_X_X

When he enters, Anne is already sitting there, legs crossed elegantly and hands resting in her lap as she listens intently to Richelieu’s rant about public perception. She doesn’t turn to look at him as he collapses into the seat next to her, but he sees the way her pulse quickens and the muscles at the base of her neck tense.

She’s even more beautiful than he remembers, and he loses his breath at the sight of her.

Treville and Richelieu are both glaring down at them, which gives Athos immediate flashbacks to being sent to the principal’s office when he was younger. Soon, Treville will tell them he’s not angry, just disappointed – no, scratch that, judging by his face he’s definitely angry.

“I can’t believe you were stupid enough to get photographed like that,” Richelieu says, voice cold.

“I can’t believe you’re not grateful,” Anne says, crossing her arms.

There’s a pause, where everyone readjusts their expectations of what should rightfully be a dressing-down. Athos shoots her a confused look she ignores. “Excuse me?” Richelieu asks eventually, glare intensifying. “Grateful that you’ve thrown our entire marketing campaign off? The press junket is in less than a week -”

“And now, instead of dull interviews about the movie, it’s a behind-the-scenes soap opera that everyone will want to know about,” Anne interrupts him smoothly. “If you let each of the interviewers ask just one question about the photos, any question they like – only think how fascinating people will find it.”

“You and Athos weren’t going to have any interviews together,” Treville intervenes. “Wasn’t that by request?” He looks over at Athos, concerned.

“We’ll manage.” Anne shrugs, merciless as ever. “Get Louis in on a few with us as well. If he storms out of one, suddenly it’s not just exes reconnecting inappropriately in a public street, it’s a dramatic love triangle. Even better.”

Richelieu looks thoughtful. “There have been a few photos of the two of you recently, haven’t they? It won’t take long for the press to start saying that anyway. Hmm. This could work. Still, it was reckless.”

“Was this deliberate?” Treville asks now, squinting at Anne.

She shrugs again. “I’m _very_ good at managing my image. You know that. I didn’t plan on it coming out so late and getting mixed up in the marketing campaign, but really it’s better that it did.”

The scolding continues for a while despite this digression, but Richelieu’s already distracted, thinking how he can spin this to the movie’s advantage. He even bestows a slight, chilly smile on Anne in approval. Once Treville winds down as well, already transitioning into crisis-management mode, and lets them go, Athos grabs Anne’s arm before she can head to her own car.

“Why take the blame?” he asks, voice slightly too thick and clumsy.

“I thought I was taking the credit,” she says, dismissing this with a wave of her hand.

“You know what I mean. This was all my fault.”

“Not completely. We could just have easily have been seen that time in their office, or spotted by one of the people at the hotel,” she points out, although he doesn’t think it’s true. “We were reckless. Anyway, it’s better if Richelieu thinks it was my idea. He’ll approve much more of me for coldly using you and Louis to gain publicity, than he will if he thinks I’m just some hormone-driven idiot so horny for my ex I’m willing to let him nail me in public. Trust me on that.”

Her using the word ‘horny’ is both crude and distracting, as is the rest of it, but he swallows those feelings to say instead, “Well – you still shouldn’t have said it. I can handle Treville’s disapproval.”

“You’re welcome,” she says sarcastically. “And clearly, you can’t handle _anyone’s_ disapproval. This must be your worst nightmare come true, mustn’t it? God forbid the world know you still have a thing for your ex-wife.”

She pulls herself free of him and walks away, leaving him staring after her and wishing it was that easy for him to free himself of her.

X_X_X_X_X

It’s three minutes before the first interview starts, the cameras are being set up, and Athos’s face already hurts at the thought of all the smiling he’ll have to do. Richelieu sent him a list of the correct responses for possible questions about the photos that Marsac sold to whoever would pay, but most of them expect the questions to be aimed solely at Anne. Actresses’ affairs are more interesting than directors’, after all, and anything sexual automatically rebounds more on the woman.

“Is he why you wouldn’t go out with me?” Louis whispers to Anne, not as quiet as he thinks he is.

“No. Could we please discuss this some other time?” Anne’s cheerful smile doesn’t waver. When the interviewer looks over, she’ll see Louis pouting, Athos trying to suppress a scowl, and Anne in between them looking completely unbothered by this. He wonders if that’s the image she’s going for – a woman slightly smug about being fought over by two men. He doubts it, but anything’s possible.

“Well, all right. But I still expect an explanation, I hope you know.”

The interview goes quickly at first: oh, filming was wonderful; so many funny little stories, have you heard about the flood at the beginning; no, it wasn’t difficult for either of them to come onto the project late because of how wonderful everyone in the cast and crew was, they’ve never worked with such great people; the movie’s something special to all of them, really something special. And then the interviewer asks her one allotted question about the photos:

“So I think we’ve all seen those photos going around. What’s the relationship between the two of you? Milady?”

Her smile widens, as if it’s the most delightful question ever. “Oh, well, those photos are very misleading. Obviously, we’re both very fond of each other – I think a lot of exes are, after the sting of divorcing wears off and everything calms down – but I wouldn’t call what we have a _relationship_ , or at least not the kind you mean.” She gives a little laugh at the absurdity of it.

Athos can feel his smile becoming rictus-like, and can’t stop the fleeting glance he gives her. Louis raises his eyebrows querulously, and opens his mouth to say something, but Anne silences him by placing a hand on his knee. Athos tries very hard not to scowl at that either, but only manages to keep his face so expressionless that it’s even more telling. He knows exactly what they look like. It doesn’t matter what Anne says, everyone watching this interview is definitely going to get the idea she’s sleeping with them both.

“The truth is I’m too busy these days to date anyone,” she adds smoothly.

The rest of the interviews follow that pattern: Anne dissembles, plays it down, jokes, turns the conversation in other directions. But she smirks more than she smiles, there’s a wicked glint in her eyes, and the words she uses are often suggestive. Sometimes her responses almost seem like Freudian slips, although Athos is completely sure every single one is deliberate. Athos’s and Louis’s imperfectly concealed reactions to what she says make it even worse. For anyone over-invested in her love life, the interviews will be a treasure trove of seemingly appropriate but lingering touches, occasional longing looks, obvious jealousy, and subtle innuendo.

When they’re finally finished and it’s time to head back to the plush hotel they’re staying in for the few days of the press junket, she looks over at Athos and rolls her eyes, letting her bright smile fade. “I don’t know why you look so horrified. We both know I’m the one who’ll be slut-shamed and dragged through the mud for this, whereas you’ll just get the sincere envy of every teenage boy who’s enjoyed one of my topless scenes.”

“I know,” he admits. “You could’ve played it down much more though. You didn’t need to make it look like… well, like you’re playing us off against each other.”

“That wouldn’t have helped. If we didn’t give them a story, they would’ve just made up their own, you know that. I’d rather go ambiguous on-set love triangle than secret remarriage, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose.” He manages not to flinch.

“And at least this way, we get publicity for the movie out of it,” she continues. “We should at least get _something_ out of it, don’t you agree?”

“So, you two aren’t…” Louis asks, and when they both shake their heads (Athos slightly too viciously), he brightens and gives Anne a toothy smile. “Wonderful! So long as we’re here, why don’t we go out to dinner, catch up? You can give me that explanation.”

By the look on Anne’s face, she’s not in the mood to give anyone anything. “I don’t think so, Louis. At this point I just want to sleep.”

As luck would have it, it turns out that their rooms are on the same floor, leading to an awkward elevator ride. He tries not to look at her. She tries not to look at him. And then, it gets worse, since when they reach them they realise that their rooms are right next to each other. Now it just feels like someone’s taunting him, and he wonders if it’s God, or perhaps Richelieu. Then he remembers them all grabbing hotel keycards at random out of the handful d’Artagnan held out earlier, and realizes it’s just pure bad luck instead.

Anne looks from his door, back to hers, and then sighs and closes her eyes. She rubs her temples with her fingers, clearly trying to stave off a headache, and he notices how tired and worn she looks under her make-up.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, lingering outside his door.

Her voice is flat as she answers, and she sounds like she’s at the end of her rope. “The internet is full of photos of me being fingered in public. Half the world thinks I’m two-timing my co-star with my ex-husband, when in fact I’m not doing anything with either. Random people in the street have started passing judgment on my sex life. I’m stuck doing interviews with a man who seems to have an ineradicable desire to sleep with me no matter how little interest I show, and a man who _could_ be sleeping with me but who would rather bathe in acid than admit to other people he wants to. So yes, Athos, everything’s wonderful.”

“That’s not why I -” he starts to say, too heatedly, then remembers where he is and lowers his voice. “That’s not why I ended it.”

“Of course it is,” she all but spits. “You were horrified at the idea of your friends knowing, and then the second they did, it was far too shameful to continue, wasn’t it? What I don’t understand is _why_. It’s not like you’re the one who came off badly in that scenario, and your friends don’t dislike me _that_ much.”

“You called us meaningless.” He swallows hard, after saying it, like he could pull the words back inside him, swallow them too.

“What? No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. You told me to tell my friends that what we were doing was meaningless.”

“It was,” she says, frustrated. “It was just sex. It was meaningless. I didn’t say you were meaningless, or that what we have is meaningless, just that we were _doing_ was meaningless. It was.”

“Not to me,” he says, and his voice cracks a little. “I never thought anything we were doing was meaningless.” 

She sighs, and rubs her hand against her eyes, clearly searching for words. “I don’t – I’m saying this badly. That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I mean that us?” She gestures between them vaguely. “What we are? Whether we’re having sex or not has absolutely no effect on that. That’s all I meant. I meant that your friends’ ‘disappointment’ and ‘concern’ is frankly ridiculous, because it isn’t like having sex or avoiding it can change what we are.”

“And what are we?”

She hesitates. “Don’t make me say it, Athos.” Her voice almost sounds pleading. “You don’t even want me to say it.”

It’s like something lodged in his throat. “I really do. What are we?”

He expects her to say _over_ , maybe, or _dysfunctional_ , or even _doomed_. Instead, she gives a little, defensive half-shrug, and says with as much unconcern as she can manage right now (which is not a lot), “We’re… the love of each other’s lives. You know. The One for each other, or soulmates, or whatever the fuck you want to call it. Nothing can change that.”

He stares at her, speechless.

“I know you’re going to say -” she begins, still defensive.

“I love you,” he interrupts her.

She blinks at him, looking startled for a moment. “I know that.”

“You…do?”

“Well, of course I know that. I just didn’t think _you_ did.” She looks strangely small and hurt, even as she scowls at him. “I mean, you’ve spent a really long time trying your hardest not to be, after all, haven’t you? And pretending you’ve managed it.”

Will there ever be a day when Anne doesn’t confuse the hell out of him?

Athos looks around, suddenly realising they’re still in a hotel corridor. “Come on,” he says brusquely, scanning the keycard and opening his door quickly, then urging her to enter. There’s a bare moment of hesitation and then she does.

The moment the door’s closed, he rounds on her, question barked like he’s interrogating her. “If you know I love you, and you think I’m your soul-mate, then why the hell are we over? Why aren’t we together?”

“I don’t know, why don’t you tell me?” she flares up. “You’re happy enough to cut me out of your life completely, unless I force myself into it in ways you can’t bring yourself to say no to. Until now, that is, when even seeing me once a week for something completely casual is apparently too much to ask for.”

He stares at her, surprised by her fury, and she continues, getting louder as she goes.

“I don’t know what’s with you lately. You make no _sense_. You’ve never shown a single sign of jealousy before, but then suddenly, me seeing someone else is unforgivable? But oh, you’d quite like to date the make-up girl. But how about we get coffee? Only you don’t want coffee, you don’t want to see me at all! And why don’t you tell me again about how our divorce is my fault, only not how I thought it was, but in some totally new way. Find some fucking _consistency_ , Athos!”

“You’re the one who said you didn’t want anything more than what we were doing,” he says. It’s all he can manage. “Back at the beginning. You said that.”

“No, I’m the one who asked if _you_ wanted something more. And you couldn’t have looked more shocked and pained if I’d electrocuted you, sitting there stuttering at me like that,” she snaps. “What did you expect me to do? I was just getting in first.”

“Like you got in first by leaving me before I could leave you? But I was never going to leave you. You were wrong.” He shakes his head, still pained by how wrong she was. He’s always known Anne’s walls were sky-high, but the lengths she’ll go to in order to defend herself emotionally never cease to amaze him. “You were wrong about this too. I wanted more. I wanted – whatever I could get. But I thought once a week was all you were willing to give. Is that – was I wrong? _Did_ you want something more? _Do_ you?”

“Of course I did – of course I -” She takes a step back and wraps her arms around her body as if to protect herself from him, from whatever he’ll say. “Yes. I did, then. Now… I don’t know. This is… I don’t know. I just don’t.”

“You said…” He softens his voice, like he’s coaxing a scared animal towards him, worried it will flee. She looks like she might if he says the wrong thing. “You said you didn’t want we had. That you couldn’t do it again.”

“No, I said I’m not trying to find what we had with someone else. Because I know that’s impossible, and even if it wasn’t, why would I want to open myself up and end up hurt again?” Her eyes are bright with tears.

“Then why did you want it back then? Trying again would have been just as much of a risk then.”

Anne looks away from him. He can hear her voice shake as she answers. “Because – it wasn’t a question of opening myself up, back then. I was already open. I was a different person. I was – I was willing to throw all my pride out the window and turn up at your place semi-naked in the hope you’d let me in, and keep showing up even though you didn’t invite me to, and ask you straight out if you wanted more, and keep trying every week to – to connect again, to find what we had.”

He’s never thought about it like that before. He would never have had the bravery to turn up at her place like that, risking absolute and devastating rejection. No wonder she’d stacked the deck by offering sex, hoping it would make it hard for him to say no. Or maybe she’d just seen it as a kind of plausible deniability if he rejected her – _of course I’m not still in love with you, I’m just here for sex, obviously, God, Athos, don’t make a big deal out of it_. He’d always thought of it in terms of himself, how pathetic it was that he hadn’t moved on, how embarrassing it was that he’d leap at any chance to touch her. He’d never have imagined she thought the same things about herself, because it was so obvious to him there could never be anything pathetic or embarrassing about her.

He remembers those comments she’d thrown at him back then, little references to their past that he’d taken as deliberate barbs, but must actually have been her way of trying to start a conversation. They’d always been so offhand, though, her tone light, and he’d been so sure he could read mockery in her face… but that’s what Anne does when she’s vulnerable, isn’t it? Papers over the cracks with clever sarcasm and playfulness. Just like she rejects people before they can reject her. He knows that, he’s always known that, but somehow he forgot it, or at least forgot that it could apply to her relationship with him as well. All this time he was so sure he knew her inside out, but it seems like he’s been letting his own insecurities, regrets, self-hatred and fear colour the picture, and completely ignoring hers.

It had been, what, two weeks after she asked him if he wanted more that she began dating that English duke? Less? He hadn’t connected those dots at the time, either.

She keeps talking as he stares at her horrified, and by now her voice is wrecked. “But when I asked if you wanted more you didn’t answer, and when I talked about the past you just ignored me, and when I dated other people you didn’t give a damn – I mean, I even turned up with fucking condoms and you just shrugged it off! I’m not open anymore. And you can’t keep doing this to me. Not if you’re not serious.”

“I’m serious,” he says, once he finds his voice again. He sounds choked up as well, but that’s because he is: choking on everything he needs to say. “I want everything. I did then too. I want – I want to try again. I just didn’t have the words, and I was scared -”

“What, because I lied to you last time?”

“No. Because you left.”

Her lips form an almost soundless “Oh.” She looks like she’s calming down now, her fury dying away. Without it she just looks stunned. 

“I love you,” he says again, so plain and unambiguous there’s nothing to misunderstand.

He pulls her close, and to his surprise, she doesn’t pull away. His mouth lands on hers with desperate longing, his hands cupping her head to keep her steady as he moves against her, and she clutches at his shoulders to keep standing on unsteady legs. He can feel her shiver as he bites at her lower lip, and the little, shameless sounds that come out of her mouth as he sucks at her neck make him helpless with need. It gets hotter, and hotter, and her hands are hard on his back now, and he’s dimly aware that in a few seconds they’ll pass the point of no return (well, that’s a lie, they passed that _years_ ago, but the point of no return for this conversation, anyway) and their clothes will be off and they’ll be skin to skin and they won’t be able to stop. He’s also aware she hasn’t said it back.

Eventually, he’s the one to pull away, breathless, and after a while trying to stop gasping, he manages to say, “I mean, I think we might need to work on our communication -”

The warmth of her is still flush against him, and he can see the slam of her pulse in her neck. A slight smile starts on her face. “Start passing each other a talking stick?”

“Having Sharing Time for an hour every day.”

“Seeing a marriage counsellor.” She stiffens the moment she realises what she said, and they both stare at each other in silence. His smile is growing, though, realising she’s actually considering this, and hers starts to follow suit, until they’re grinning at each other like idiots. He moves even closer to her.

“That one’s… not a bad idea,” he admits. “So long as we avoid that therapist Porthos saw, the one who suggested yodelling could help with daddy issues. We could find an actual marriage counsellor, though. And while we’re at it, maybe get married again. You know. Just so the therapist will see us.”

“I think it might be better to start with that coffee,” she says, with assumed nonchalance. He can see through it though. Her fingers tighten against him like she can’t stand for him to move away. “Just because we love each other is no reason to rush things.”

She said _we_ , he thinks, and the pure, unbridled, impossible happiness that floods through him at it almost makes up for every moment of uncertainty and misery throughout the past years. “Just a coffee?” He grabs her hand and presses a kiss to the back of it, like an old-fashioned gentleman. Then he kisses a few inches higher, and a few inches higher than that, and keeps going until he’s no longer anything like old-fashioned, and then he starts to pull open her shirt to work his way down again, because he can’t stop touching her and now he never has to.

“Maybe… not _just_ a coffee,” she allows, gasping, fingers starting to curl in his hair.

“So marriage, then?”

“I’m willing to – ah! – discuss it.” She jerks against him as his lips find her breast. “However much you like. As long as you’re prepared for it to take a while. We have time. And clearly, we also have issues.”

“Well.” He lets himself fall to his knees, the better to keep kissing his way down her body, and smiles up at her, so happy he can barely contain it. “I’m ready to propose whenever you want me to. You just let me know.”

“Maybe not right now,” she says, but he can see the tears in her eyes, and even if he didn’t know her so well he’d be able to tell they’re tears of joy. Her grin has well and truly taken over her face right now, and she’s trembling a little against him, and her heart beats in time with his, and now he knows it always has. 

“However will I occupy myself down here until then?” he asks rhetorically, and starts searching for a way.

She says _yes_ long before he gets around to proposing again, but it may be unrelated.


	9. Release (Epilogue)

“Athos,” his ex-ex-wife says in a singsong voice, nudging him into wakefulness. He was quite enjoying drifting in the warm space between being awake and being sleep, knowing she was there leaning on him, curled up together in their bed, muscles feeling pleasantly sore and used, the rest of him feeling uncharacteristically well-rested. Not that being rested is that uncharacteristic anymore, but part of him will never stop being surprised by that, any more than he’ll stop being surprised by the rest of it.

“No,” he says, keeping his eyes closed and reaching down blindly with a hand to try and cover her mouth, already realising what she’s going to say. “Don’t you dare.”

She manages to avoid his reaching hand while still resting her head on his stomach, and even whacks it with the book she’s holding when he gets too close. She uses her other hand to toss her reading glasses onto the bedside table, to safety. “It’s the half-sister. Definitely the half-sister.”

He thinks about it, running through plot points and hints, then opens his eyes in defeat, staring at the ceiling. “Dammit. Of course it is. What page are you up to?”

“Still haven’t hit your bookmark.”

“ _Dammit_ ,” he says again, but he’s not really annoyed. In fact, he can’t stop himself from smiling. “Did you really have to wake me up for that?”

“You’re getting old, Athos,” she informs him teasingly. “Time was you wouldn’t have needed a nap after a quickie.”

“That wasn’t a quickie. Quickies do not typically involve handcuffs, multiple locations, sex toys, and safe words. And I’ll show _you_ old.” He wriggles downwards and has her trapped in seconds, although she shrieks and tries to slap him away, again with the book. He grabs it out of her hand and drops it to the floor, but carefully – it was a gift from her, and he doesn’t want to damage it. Then he returns to wrestling with her.

She’s started buying novels whenever she sees one she thinks he’ll like, to make up for the fact that after their remarriage Ninon stopped sending them. Even though Anne’s not a publisher, she knows him better, and so he finds he likes the ones she picks out more than the ones Ninon sent. Besides, it adds something to it, trying to figure out just what motivated Anne to pick each specific one – in this case, he thinks it’s the time period of the story which caught her eye first, since it matches the time period of the script he’s been working on lately.

“I had to wake you up anyway,” she tells him a little breathlessly once he’s got her pinned and has started pressing kisses to her neck and collarbone. “We need to head off for the premiere soon. We don’t want to miss it.”

“Don’t we?” he asks wistfully, pausing in his kisses, although he knows as lead actress and director they really can’t miss the screening. “We could just recreate the important parts here. All you’d need to do is put on a corset and knock me over a few times. Straddling is optional.”

“Straddling is never optional, and your friends make fun of us enough as it is.”

He sighs and releases her, watching sadly as she wanders naked over to the wardrobe. It’s true, his friends do tease them a lot, but it’s all in good fun, and if the worst thing they can mock Athos for is that he spends too much time in bed with his wife he thinks he can deal with that. 

Porthos is, of course, thrilled that they’ve patched things up. He even offered to return their old furniture, which was apparently taken by a group of very dodgy sharehousers who’ll give it back for a couple of hundred dollars, but they declined. Instead, they leased a new apartment, and got new furniture. Nothing excessive, but a new start should feel new. They want to do better this time. Regardless, Porthos and Anne play a lot of pool together, and sometimes when they’ve all hit the point of drunkenness where everything becomes deep and meaningful, they split off from the rest of them to talk in low voices about things from their similar pasts, hard memories that would be more likely to incite pity in most other people than understanding.

Aramis spent a while loudly proclaiming that he was horrified to have her back with them, but Athos has noticed that he saves up his worst stories and most terrible jokes for when Anne’s around, as if it’s not worth saying them unless she’s there to annoy. They’ve also started accidentally-on-purpose aligning their gym visits a few times a week, training each other in their respective skills, but they’ve both told him separately and confidentially that it’s basically charity – apparently the other’s technique is terrible, and they just want to help. It’s unusually unselfish of them. It’s strange, but he thinks they get along better now than they did during his and Anne’s first marriage – maybe they’ve both matured a bit. Or maybe they just realised they didn’t dislike each other as much they thought.

D’Artagnan is perpetually confused by their relationship, and in fact by Anne in general. Anne has a habit of flirting with him, which in the beginning terrified him out of his wits, but which he’s gradually grown used to. He can even lob back innuendos sometimes, although he still occasionally gets up on his high horse about things she says, even when she’s only joking. Surprisingly, Constance and Anne got along great after a rocky start, and apparently text each other helpful tips and factoids about things they really shouldn’t. They occasionally have dinner parties when all four of them are free, and Athos has found it’s best to deliberately limit the amount of alcohol in the vicinity to prevent situations like the Laundromat Debacle or the Coin-Flipping Fiasco. Anne and Constance can both be much too reckless after a few bottles of wine, and their respective husbands end up helplessly dragged along in their wake.

Basically, Athos’s friends have become Anne’s friends as well, more so than they were last time, when she seemed to be striving for some kind of separation of church and state in their marriage.

Athos doesn’t mind. Anne’s never had many friends, but she’s his wife, and what’s his is hers. If she’s willing to make his friends hers as well, he’s more than willing to share them. This time, no one will be forced to choose sides in a divorce, because Anne’s (only half-jokingly) informed him that if he ever tries to divorce her again she’s locking him in their apartment, throwing all their clothes out the window, and keeping them there until he gives up on the idea. It’s almost enough to tempt him to try… well, maybe not.

Richelieu and Treville reacted pretty much as expected. Treville just sighed and asked if this meant they were going to be even more inappropriate when they worked together, before giving them both his genuine good wishes. Richelieu gave Anne a lecture on what a bad idea it was, but Anne told him that if he didn’t mind his own business she’d make him godfather to their firstborn, and he hasn’t dared speak to her about it again just in case she’s not joking. Athos hopes to God she is.

Not that the firstborn idea is by itself a bad one, but while he’s mentioned it to her, he’s not going to push. A pregnancy won’t have much of an effect on his career, but it will have a massive one on hers, and he’s not going to be the asshole husband who controls her career, not in any way. Besides, he’s not sure how he feels about a child taking up all their time. Maybe in a few years. Then again, maybe not. Either way, as long as he has her, he’ll be just fine.

“How do I look?” Anne asks, wandering back into the room as she puts in her earrings. Her dress is pure white, making her dark hair, bottle-green eyes, and slash of red lipstick stand out brightly in comparison. Somehow, the plainness of the dress only accentuates the figure underneath, and he stares in open appreciation. Then she does a twirl and his mouth goes dry, because whoever designed the dress appears to have forgotten to give it a back. 

“Gorgeous. How quickly can you get it off?”

“More quickly than you can get _me_ off. But apart from that, you’ll have to find out yourself later on.”

“That sounded like a challenge.”

“Hmm, did it?” She drifts over to him and gives him a wicked smile, but when he leans down to try and kiss her lipstick off, she stops him with her fingers. She gives him a look of mock reproval, those red lips quirking in a satisfied smirk. “I said later, Athos.”

“I could talk you out of that,” he says, with matching smugness, and traces a finger down the side of her neck. He watches her swallow hard and lean into him a little before remembering herself.

“Writers,” she huffs, and her fingers also drift lower, hooking in the waistband of the sweatpants he’s got on (he should probably go get changed as well) and tugging slightly. “Always so wordy. But I’m not a writer, am I? I like _action_.”

Now he’s the one who swallows slightly too hard, and of course, that’s not the only thing that’s slightly too hard. “Are you _sure_ we have to go see this?” 

“Just because _you’ve_ already seen the finished product,” she tuts, letting go. “The only completed bits I’ve seen are from when we did dialogue recording and replacement – well, and the trailers. Not exactly a complete movie. I want to see what happens to Clarice and her fabulously-uncontained cleavage.”

“Fine, fine. We’ll go watch you beat up a bunch of men, straddle Louis, show off your breasts, and ignore half my directions,” he says, heaving a sigh. He supposes it could be worse, though. While he’s not especially proud of the quality of this film, there’s no denying he has good reason to be happy they made it. “The sacrifices I make for love.”

“Apart from the Louis bit, it does kind of sound like a partial list of your kinks,” she points out.

“Please never mention Louis in the same sentence as kinks again.”

“Someone’s gotten very staid,” she says sadly. “Staid and old. Whatever happened to the man who suggested a threesome with my make-up artist?”

“He realised it was difficult enough to keep one woman satisfied, when that woman is you.” He kisses her, and this time she lets him, even though it smudges her lipstick. She sighs happily against his mouth, deepening it, but eventually he pulls back reluctantly. “He also never existed, come to think of it, because I definitely didn’t suggest that. That was all you. Actually, if she’s there tonight can you point her out? I still never figured out who she was.”

“Not a chance in hell.” Apparently, he’s not the only one who can get jealous, although it’s impressive she can be jealous of a woman he’s never even spoken to. Nevertheless, she gives him a look. “And don’t think you’ll distract me like this. Go get dressed.”

Athos sighs again and starts to go get ready. He’s always had a special level of hatred for the red carpet at these things, since it represents all of his least favourite parts of the job – it’s all fluff, no substance, although he knows it’s ungrateful to think that way. These events are filled with excessively white grins and excessively tanned skin, outfits that no one really wants to wear to sit for hours in an uncomfortably scratchy chair, fans whose overexcitement manages to make him feel exhausted instead of flattered, and enough flashing cameras to blind half the attendees. Their jobs require them to smile and smile and _smile_ to everyone who’s there and to the cameras as well, and Athos hates it.

Anne, of course, is in her element for nights like this, although he knows it’s far from her favourite part as well. He’s lucky he married one of the most self-sufficient and low-maintenance actresses in Hollywood otherwise it would have been a whole afternoon of manicures, spa treatments and make-up, instead of one spent in bed together.

However, arriving together will also double the amount of time it takes them to get inside, because everyone always wants Anne to autograph things. Athos isn’t unaccustomed to being asked for his signature, but his admirers aren’t as intense as hers, and they certainly don’t usually tell him earnestly they’re getting the signature tattooed on them, ask him to sign private areas, or make remarks that are personal, sexual, or even oddly threatening. Going places with her can sometimes be exhausting. She’ll handle it all with her usual poise, of course – she always seems genuinely thrilled to meet fans of her work, greeting them with enthusiasm and her trademark gap-teethed grin, and she somehow contrives to look politely interested instead of horrified by anyone who gets truly inappropriate. Tonight, though, he suspects she’ll be as close to frazzled by it as she ever gets, since Richelieu’s managed to round up a truly intimidating number of journalists and other celebrities.

And it’s not like the night will end there. Luckily, there’s no glitzy and raucous party they’re expected to attend, but Richelieu’s holding a gathering at his house after the premiere and they’re going to that. Richelieu’s place never fails to unnerve Athos – it looks like the man considered minimalism, and decided it was still too showy. It’s all open plan, but the wide echoing spaces contain only the occasional piece of furniture. There’s whole rooms where it looks like it’d be easier to play a game of indoor soccer than find somewhere to sit down. Treville also stays there on the rare occasions he’s not either on location or going to investigate new potential opportunities, but all that means is that he’s covered half of the few available surfaces with messes of paper, so everyone has to stand and juggle all their food and drink the whole night. All the richest people in Hollywood will be there and they’ll have to make nice with them all.

It will be endless and exhausting and filled with small talk, and he’s getting a headache just thinking about it.

Still, Anne’s expression when she sees him in his latest outfit for black tie events does cheer him up slightly. She looks like she’d like to eat him alive, but instead she moves into his embrace again and drapes her arms around his neck.

“ _Darling_ ,” she whispers into his ear. “You clean up _very_ nicely.”

“And here I thought you preferred me dirty,” he deadpans, enjoying her hot breath in his ear.

“Hmm, maybe. But that tie is giving me ideas.” She gives it a playful pull, twisting it around her hand, a steady and unrelenting pressure that draws his head further down until his face is neatly pressed into the curve of her neck, and now it’s giving him ideas as well. Not that it ever takes much to give him ideas, when it comes to her. He licks a line along her collarbone, and she twists her head and gets revenge by mouthing lewdly at the hollow just below his ear that makes him weak. The scrape of her teeth and the hot wetness of her tongue against him makes for an intensely enjoyable thirty seconds, but then she leans back with a shaky breath and rubs regretfully at the lipstick marks she’s left along his neck. “We need to get going. And now I need to redo my make-up _again_.”

“We could have spent tonight rediscovering all the fun uses for neckties,” he says, with real regret, resting his hands on the warmth of her bare lower back. She shivers nearly imperceptibly at even the light touch, eyes still murky with desire. “Instead of attending this ridiculous, overhyped nightmare of an event. Why did we choose these careers, again? Remind me.”

“There’s always tomorrow night for that,” Anne says with a half-shrug. Her hot gaze softens to something gentler as she looks up at him, held within the circle of his arms, and now her fingers stroke the back of his neck slowly, warming him further. He’s always been able to read her face, but right now anyone could – there’s naked love in her expression, passionate and unconditional, and it’s so blatantly obvious he can’t imagine there was a time he couldn’t see it. “And the next night, and the next… we’ve got the rest of our lives, after all.”

“The rest of our lives,” he echoes, and finds that he’s smiling.

Suddenly, the night ahead doesn’t seem so bad.


End file.
